


This One's Dedicated to [static interruption]

by purpjools



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Background Relationships, Blood and Gore, Demisexuality, Denial of Feelings, Drug Use, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Domestic Violence, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Assault, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Sex Positive Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Slow Burn, Soft Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:53:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22893583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: A couple of years since the hotel's opening, the residents have settled down into a fairly tolerable routine. Recently, some of them have begun experiencing peculiar symptoms which become more noticeable as time passes. To his dismay, the Radio Demon finds that he is not immune.A chance encounter with Angel Dust propels the two demons together as they attempt to answer what's behind the unusual phenomena, while rediscovering all the things they thought dead and buried along the way.
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Original Character(s), Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)/Original Male Character(s), Implied Valentino/Vox, Minor Charlie Magne/Vaggie - Relationship
Comments: 108
Kudos: 360





	1. Oh no (It's just the nearness of you)

**Author's Note:**

> The pairing is primarily Alastor/Angel Dust.
> 
> This was supposed to be a one-shot. Damn it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mardi Gras

He couldn’t remember what winter felt like.

Most denizens of Hell agreed that summer was the worst season on earth, and in the predictable case of majority rules, the environment of Hell reflected just that: eternal summer. It was up for grabs whether or not angels preferred the summer months: most of those south of the moral line seemed to prefer colder weather, so it was only natural to assume that those northern idealists would want to punish them accordingly. Therefore, it was presumed by many demons and sinners that Heaven’s weather consisted of spring, autumn, and winter (the nice seasons, laden with pumpkin spice and peppermint everything).

Alastor was not accustomed to snow at all.

Snowfall was uncommon in Louisiana. And Alastor was never the sort to run with majority rules. Perhaps eternal summer was an apt reminder: yes, everyone is in still in Hell, you’re very welcome for the stifling temperature, good luck with buying ice cream and rushing home without it melting.

Still, he wondered if Hell would change a bit with snow. Instead of fire and brimstone and blood, there could be something that could possibly, feasibly, take its place.

Just something else.

For the novelty of it.

He sighed into his drink. The ice cubes were beginning to melt at the start of his melancholic whimsy; his drink was now existing as a sad admixture of water and whisky. Husker would be irritated were he awake, Alastor thought, at the waste of decent scotch. But even he knew, as long as he’d served Alastor:

January was always especially difficult.

Not that he would ever admit to it; no, no, no, at this point he’d rather give up showmanship forever than ever admit this strange fanatical melancholy. It started with a nagging feeling, something he couldn’t quite remember involuntarily _convulsing_ in the back of his mind. Alastor shut his eyes, and willed for that unavoidable nuisance to clear away. Maybe the drinks were getting to his head. He’d been drinking since early evening after all. There was an alarming uptake in static, however, and an involuntary chorus crooned:

_I need no soft lights to enchant me  
If you will only grant me  
The right to hold you ever so tight_

A swell ditty, written well after…

**_It doesn’t matter_** [static interference]

Suddenly, a startling crash sounded to the left of him, and Alastor almost jumped. His fingers twitched and fluttered with the incoming noise, and he snapped his neck towards the sound.

“What on Earth?”

There’s a pause and:

“Seriously, Smiles?”

Angel Dust shook himself off, having drunkenly slammed his way into the kitchen…bar counter. His left leg was busted, most likely, and he was certain that he’d find bruises on his body in the morning. He was vaguely aware that he kept clenching his teeth; not a great sign, and it was probably indicative of what drugs he was fed tonight. His teeth were clenching the whole night, and most of his fingers were twitching, so it didn’t seem to bode well for him…at least not for the future version of himself. He was also covered in glitter and some body fluids, which explained why the radio demon was glaring at him. And it was most definitely why the hotel lobby was engulfed in radio static and interference.

“And where might have you been?”

Angel regrouped, quickly.

“Look, it’s been a long night and I’d rather jus’ go up to my room and wait out this high, so wyd’ya mind jus’ bein’ discreet about this? I hadda rough and I mean _rough_ night and…”

**[SCREECH]**

“Ha **ha** ha, Angel! No one is questioning what sort of night you’ve had!”

A studio laugh track echoed in the distance but quickly wound down in the quiet of the hotel. The lobby was completely empty. All of the wandering souls departed to their rooms during the early evening, acting quieter and pensive in the wake of the recent extermination. Everything was as it usually was at [redacted] in the early morning. The lobby furniture, glowing faintly pink at certain angles, stood resolutely incongruous in the morning dim.

> _Rather like an empty radio station, without the hum of the “on air” plaque, but budding with potential in the dead air space. The microphone, an ever-present entity, appears to mock him with its constant existence. The world, at least to Alastor, keeps on turning, breathing, living. Change is inevitable, and time stops for no one._
> 
> _Not even for the most important person in the world._

Alastor realized that he disengaged as soon as Angel shifts, uncertain and most likely drugged out of his mind, judging by his demeanour and mere existence. He readjusted his focus to the subject at hand, only to be met with Angel’s uncertain frown.

“Al? You okay?”

“Yes, just…peachy.”

Angel wobbled, the injuries getting the best of him. He, for the love of everything not holy, tried to keep a straight face for the Radio Demon, especially since Alastor was being his typical, if slightly off, non-repentant demonic self. His knees buckled a little then, and his body lurched towards the floor.

Whatever Angel expected, the outcome never made the top ten.

Something _ghostly_ wrapped around his biceps and thighs before he hit the ground. The grip was secure, yet felt loose enough for him to be able to break free, if he wished. He could feel the zipper of his knee high boots biting into his leg, however, and that launched him into panic mode. Angel tilted his face upwards, fangs bared, only to be met with the red stare of the radio demon. Angel willed his heart to calm down. It was fine, it was fine, he was back at ho- _the hotel_ , it was only just Alastor.

A part of Angel scoffed at the ridiculous thought. Only just, as if the freaking Radio Demon couldn’t just rip his spine through his abdomen using one hand. Or with a goddamn ghost tentacle. He opened his mouth, somewhat successfully.

“Thanks babe, I…”

“What happened?”

The question was loaded; the tentacles on his legs did not yield. They seemed to grasp tighter after the inquiry. Angel bucked: once, twice, and folded.

“Nothin’, I jus’ hadda weird night, no need to go all soft on me.” The spider demon felt every bone in his body as dead weight, but he rallied. “So lemme go unless you wanna play extra, doll.”

Angel Dust grinned, gold tooth gleaming in the refracted light.

The corners of Alastor’s ever present smile twitched, and his eyes narrowed slightly.

“You seem to be favouring your right leg, my dear.” He glanced up, acknowledging the thin lines of drying blood on Angel’s chin, and resolutely ignoring the rest of the wet patches on his clothes.

“I suggest not trying my patience with lying. I am not in the mood for it tonight, Angel.”

His threatening grin seared in Angel’s vision. Angel, for his part, wavered only slightly. He noted the half empty glass of whiskey to Alastor’s right, the glass beading droplets onto the bar’s countertop. He grimaced; it must be late enough that Husk was already asleep, and early enough so that only one demon was keeping vigil. It was apparently also late enough that there was a ring of water surrounding the bottom of the glass, late enough that all the other, fancier glasses were hung and set in their intended positions at the bar, late enough that the well was cleared of all manner of debris. And if Angel knew anything, he knew how it felt to be kept from a drink that he so viscerally needed. The radio demon’s fingers tapped on the countertop in an erratic rhythm. His jaws clenched minutely, and Angel knew his time was up.

“Okay, okay. Fine, Smiles. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” He sighed, “I hadda go see one of my regs, and he’s not exactly known for playing by the rules. But I know him, and he’s comfortable with me, so he plays by my rules. Mostly. Anyway, I got a huge tip from him after getting roughed up, and I fuckin’…I’m such a moron. Thought I could get away with tellin’ Val I only made base pay.”

He shivered, and the tentacles loosened their hold. He shut his eyes.

“I jus’ wanted to keep some for myself cuz’ I ain’t made much living here, and I wanted to get some more dust, an’ I was stupid an’ I shoulda kept my trap shut, but I thought I could get away with it, and Val seemed to fucking buy it, and I almost walked outta there with my trap full, then when I was walkin’ out, Val…” Angel convulsed, and his fur bristled. Alastor marvelled at Angel’s apparent inability to cease rambling.

He let the silence linger for a beat, then: “What are you intoxicated with?”

The spider demon choked out a laugh.

“That’s what’s botherin’ you, sweetheart?” Angel snapped his eyes back open, meeting Alastor’s glowing gaze. “What I’m fucking on right now?”

The tentacles finally withdrew, and Angel was left gripping the bar counter for support. His teeth clenched again, and he tried to fight the grinding as Alastor loomed over his hunched body. Angel found he couldn’t possibly keep constant eye contact with Alastor so he opted for looking at a random piece of furniture. The room kept swaying, minutely changing colours, and when he couldn’t fight off the urge, he ran his arms against the bar counter.

Angel was alight with sensation when Alastor quietly stated, “From visual evidence alone, I can gather what your…colleague…has done to you. It would behove you to be honest with me.”

The Radio Demon lurched forward, and Angel Dust flinched at the movement.

“Your path to redemption is of utmost concern to me.”

Although shaken by Alastor’s abrupt positioning, Angel bristled. The way the sentence was stated, so matter-of-factly, and his decreasing serotonin levels probably accounted for the outburst that shot out of his mouth next.

“Fuck you, Al, you don’t know jackshit about me, and ya don’t even wanna try. So quit ya bullshit already, I’m tired, my whole goddamn body’s sore, and I wanna just go to sleep and forget tonight.”

To Angel’s chagrin: a wide rictus grin.

“I don’t believe I’ve stuttered! What **was** that again, Angel?”

_Goddamit._ Angel flinched inwardly. His last chance at diverting the subject was gone. He exhaled through his nose forcefully.

“I think it’s meth. And probably some heroin. Speedball. I’m too goddamn pissed for it to be molly,” he replied in a monotone voice, staring down at the countertop. Angel vaguely gesticulated up and down his body. “Two guys at first, private show for three, and probably the whole population of hell for the finale.”

A short silence ensued. That was unusual for Al. He usually replied with an insult regarding his sexual depravity, or waved off the subject with a short dismissal. Angel contemplated just leaving, for the sake of his pride, if not for his limbs. _Non-existent pride_ , his mind unhelpfully supplied. Just before he was about to dive headfirst into another bout of self-loathing, dulcet overtones of jazz filled the air.

Immediately, his eyes snapped up to meet Alastor’s.

What he found there was unexpected.

It very may have well been a trick of the dim hotel lighting or even Angel’s currently intoxicated state, but Alastor’s eyes seemed softer, somehow. The smile was still ever-so-present, but there seemed to be a bit of downturn on the edges. Before he could react properly to this swift change in mood, Alastor spoke.

“You _think_?” The voice was gentle, smooth, and barely audible amongst the music. To Angel, it seemed totally uncharacteristic of the demon; Alastor was a showman, through and through. He did note, however, the microphone stand, leaning in an innocuous manner on the bar, and the way Alastor’s coat hung around his chair. The Radio Demon’s sleeves were folded at his elbows, gloves nowhere to be seen. Angel amusedly noted a dark colour adorning his clawed hands towards the crook of Alastor’s elbows, fading where the shirt folded. He shook his head, trying to focus on the question.

“I…” He hesitated, unsure. “They gave it to me, and I had ta take a hit, ya know? I mean, I didn’t _have_ ta but I _had_ ta. If I didn’t…” He trailed off, and Alastor, sensing the nature of the explanation, interrupted.

“I understand.”

The admission was quietly spoken, but firm. Alastor tried his best to maintain eye contact, competing against Angel’s wavering attention. “I understand, Angel, ” he repeated.

Perhaps it was due to the whisky, and perhaps it was the month, but Alastor continued in more or less the same vein, “It is understandable to me when one is forced to do something against their nature just to appease everyone else.”

Oh yes, Alastor was familiar with guilt, accusations, and the inevitable acquiesce. It seemed more tolerable as time went on, but even almost a century of death couldn’t temper that uneasiness. He supposed it branched out to other aspects of life, as it were. Hell spared no one, and every sinner was considered equal prey in Hell. Regardless of the sin.

He spared a glance at the rest of the spider demon, haphazardly flicking his gaze up and down. Unkempt appearance aside, he certainly appeared somewhat normal. As normal as the spider could get. But telltale signs, such as the minute shaking of his lower extremities and gaze avoidance set Alastor on alert. Before he could evaluate the demon’s overall condition, Angel began speaking again.

“Today…was weird. You remember anything from when you was alive, Al? Tonight felt that way, kinda.”

Alastor nodded slowly. His claws tapped against the glass.

“In hell, people don’t give a damn, usually. But tonight was just like when I was alive. I was outside my body when the guy was fuckin’ me, and I felt…fucked up, like I wasn’t in control. And I’m always in control! It’s just tonight, ya know, and cuz I felt that way, I dunno, I was…ashamed.”

Angel breathed in and continued.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Demons ain’t supposed ta feel shame, whatever. I just. I didn’t want to feel outta control, so I took the money to make me feel better. Long story short, jokes on me: it didn’t. I felt the same way I always did.”

It was like his voice was on autopilot at this point.

“I mean, I _chose_ the life I’m livin’ right? I got no right to feel this.”

An alarming screech emitted from the microphone stand. Angel clapped his hands over his ears in response. He sneaked a peak at Alastor, who was ramrod straight and looming over him. There was something sinister in his smile, but Angel found he was too incapacitated and terrified to ruminate over it. Everything surrounding them became shrouded with an inky sheen, as if the abyss had materialized in the hotel lobby. The shadows darted about the walls, tittering. A stinging chill ascended over the lobby, causing pinpricks to form on uncovered skin.

“ **Do not confuse punishment for free will. There is nothing here but the illusion of choice. We are given the punishment that is deemed fit.** ” Alastor’s eyes were erratic radio dials, and the dials were constantly switching amplitudes, resulting in an escalation of static. Strange symbols hovered in the surrounding air.

“ **It is not…your fault. Not your fault. Not your fault**.”

Alastor’s statement echoed in the empty hotel lobby. A thick undercurrent of faint white noise blanketed the floor for several moments, then slowly faded out. Angel hadn’t realized he was trembling until the music started up again. He felt something wet on his cheeks. Blood? No. _Stupid._

Whether Alastor noticed the tears or not, the darkness receded and with it, the symbols and shadows. As the heaviness dissipated, the lobby became lighter again.

It was strange, this clenching feeling in his chest. Angel hadn’t felt the sensation in years. The last time he experienced something similar was sometime after 1935, when his ma first got sick, and he had staggered up to her room after getting into it with some thugs that messed with Molly and her girlfriends. They beat him black and blue, and Ma took one look at him, cupped his face, and said, “ _Cucciolo_ , you did good. You stood up for your sister in front of those bad men. You were so brave.”

He remembers telling her that he was so ashamed. He lost the fight, and Pop was going to be so disappointed. His tears slipped through the crevices of her fingers, and she smiled.

“No, no. My angel, you were good. They, those men, were wrong.” She ran her thumb in a circle on his wet cheek. “It is not your fault.”

Her hands were as warm as her eyes. “You make me proud.”

He wished he could stopper that feeling in a bottle and store it away for safekeeping, forever. He missed her so, so much.

And he was in hell, where she could never ever be.

Angel felt a warmth near his side, and he all but collapsed into it. There was an involuntary shiver from the tentacle? Angel couldn’t focus much, intoxication levels in a contrasting state of ebb and flow. He could barely feel himself being carried, and the sudden jolt of what his feeble mind processed as interdimensional travel only served to make him dizzier.

He found himself horizontal on what seemed to be a soft bed or couch. His head was elevated and cushioned. When he leaned his head to the right, Angel breathed in notes of spicy pepper and cedarwood. Warmth and jazz enveloped him, and his head nodded towards the scent. His eyes closed of their own accord. He faded, along the buzzing in his head.

_Rather uncharacteristic of me_ , Alastor thought.

Something else hissed, _Not the first time you’ve gone soft_ , the last word spat out derisively.

Alastor elected to ignore the voice, yet again.

He still was not entirely sure why he ended up portalling the spider demon and himself up to one of the penthouses in the hotel. It was admittedly unnerving to see Angel so dishevelled, and after Alastor’s own night of brooding, the scene had not filled him with the usual amusement or malice. There was something so fragile and pathetic about the spider at that moment. Although Alastor could not pinpoint exactly why that was, he had acted immediately and without thinking. That fact disconcerted him, but alas, the damage was already done.

While in hell, one needed to cultivate an aura of control. Many demons, hell-born and sinners alike, were unable to control their emotions and base urges. It was a glaring weakness that welcomed the opportunity for manipulation. And no one despised weakness more than Alastor, he was sure of it. Born as a human with no innate demonic powers to speak of, Alastor was keenly aware of the odds stacked against him in Hell. The cursed body he was given after his death, surely a joke from one of those blasted entities, was the icing on this proverbial shit cake. But as long as he retained the illusion of control, he remained relatively unscathed.

In life, however, that was another matter entirely.

Angel’s subdued question from earlier resonated in his mind.

_Do you remember when you was alive, Al?_

Alastor shut his eyes. He placed the cool glass of whisky to the side of his head.

_I felt…fucked up, like I wasn’t in control._

His hand involuntary twitched, and so he began clenching and unclenching his one free hand to try and release the tension. He was aware of the slight movement of Angel’s head on his lap, but to his credit, did not outwardly react.

_And I’m always in control!_

That was it, wasn’t it. The illusion of control. The Eldritchs and the Magnes, and all those lesser hell-born demons could never begin to understand human nature, not truly. Humans were barbaric little creatures. Humans stole and enslaved and murdered and raped.

Humans also helped. They comforted the injured and the fallen. Humans leapt into the line of fire for no reason other than their own principles. Humans watched and did nothing as others were subjected to torment, and they also risked their own lives to aid. Humans knew how temporary their lifespans were, and still feebly tried. In the shadow of God’s great big plan, they exercised their free will and wielded it as if it were a weapon. A shield.

Well, he mused. We were all human once.

He lifted his glass, Angel Dust’s head warm and present on his lap, and the jazz continued. Remnants of the last song, the earlier ditty, slipped through the radio static, the early morning calm, and the careful façade of control.

_And to feel in the night  
The nearness of you_

Somewhere up in the red sky of hell, a lone star blinked, once and fleeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics in italics are from the song "The Nearness of You" (I'm partial to the Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong version)


	2. You took the best (so why not take the rest)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel seeks out Alastor to confront him about that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I edit everything until my hot little hands decide to slap me to stop
> 
> Rude
> 
> Happy Super Tuesday + normal Wednesday

They don’t speak of that night in weeks.

Alastor and Charlie found their hands unexpectedly full with hotel business after Pentious suddenly reappeared in the wake of the latest extermination, and attempted to blow up the hotel yet again. It, unsurprisingly, going by the pattern of the previous dozen or so attacks on the hotel, did not bode well for him. The whole place reeked of rotting eggs, and the stench seared itself into Angel’s mind and possibly the lobby walls. Shortly after that, Demon Prince Stolas dropped by, inquiring about Charlie’s aspirations for the hotel (“Likely a guise for some sinister overlord plan,” Vaggie bitched) and subsequently, Alastor spent much of that time dodging the grabby owl’s advances.

Angel had to give credit where it was due: Stolas was nothing if persistent. All of Hell’s sex workers, Angel very much included, were keenly aware of this fact. Alastor, having spent very little time in Hell’s redly lit districts, vastly underestimated the sheer tenacity of the demon. He finally went so far as to lock himself in Husk’s room; Husk unfortunately finding out after opening his closet following a usual night of heavy drinking.

The bloodcurdling scream was not well appreciated by the hotel residents.

All in all, it was pretty entertaining for Angel. If slightly inconvenient.

He didn’t want to unnecessarily stir the pot, but a huge part of him was curious about Alastor’s remarks and strange behavior that night. The morning after, he awoke with a splitting headache on one of the couches in a penthouse suite with Alastor’s fucking suit jacket folded neatly under his head. Unable to resist and feeling only marginally like a huge pervert, he inhaled into the clothes, which smelled faintly of cedarwood and pepper.

Of course, the night could have just been a half-remembered dream for all he knew. There was a slim chance in Hell that Alastor would have comforted him that night, and no chance whatsoever that he let Angel pass out on his clothes.

Wasn’t there?

He recalled the sensation of fingers carding through his hair, but he was certain that was another impossibility. It must have been an aftereffect of all the drugs.

Anyway, what the fuck was he supposed to say to Alastor? Did the Radio Demon even want to talk to him? Why the fuck couldn’t he let this go?

Also, the fact that the incident wasn’t the first time Alastor had done something like that niggled at the back of his mind.

All those thoughts ran circles around his head, prompting the ghost of another migraine. Due to the distraction, he hurriedly rounded the corner and slammed, chest fluff first, into Charlie. The blow was solid, but she yelped in time for him to snap back to his senses. He quickly snatched her wrists with lightning reflexes using his lower limbs as she stumbled backward. He caught her just in time, yanking her towards him.

“Woah! Sorry I was just…Angel?” She blinked up at him. “Where’s the fire?”

“Hey sweets, sorry ‘bout that, didn’t know some broad was gonna be flyin’ around the corner.”

Angel looked down at her contrite face. He let out a sigh. “I was distracted. Sorry, toots, my fault.”

_Not your fault_

He plastered on a cheeky smile. “Where’s the temperamental girlfriend?”

“Oh, Vaggie? She went with Niffty to doublecheck our security. She thinks Stolas could’ve bugged the place or something.” Her ensuing laugh wavered while she poked her index fingers together. Angel lifted a brow at the tic.

“Do you think he did something? Owl Cloaca is a creepy bastard, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t put it past the guy.”

She matched his smile now, wide and more sincere. Angel felt his heart clench, just a little.

“Oh gross, I didn’t need that mental image!”

They both snickered. Charlie put a hand on Angel’s arm, lightly squeezing it. He stared at her, marveling for the umpteenth time at her open affection and naivete. Especially more so for a princess of Hell.

_Princess of Hell_

“Anyway, Angel, I should probably get going, maybe help Vaggie with-”

“Hey Charlie? Can I ask you something?” he interrupted.

“S-sure! Of course, Angel, bombs away!” She made a whistling sound and mimicked an explosion with her hands. Angel threw her a withering look, but she seemed too amused to truly take any offense.

“A-anyway…” He rolled his eyes. “I was jus’ wondering what ya thought about,” he gestured vaguely around, “Hell.”

“Hell?”

“Yeah, I mean, you was born here, so all you know is Hell. So what’s the deal? What the fuck does it mean to sinners like us? Truly?”

“Er…” Charlie hesitated.

* * *

She was unsure what Angel meant by the question, but she still wanted to answer as best as she could. He seemed a little rattled by something, and she didn’t want to frighten him away.

 _Sinners like them?_ She decided that he probably meant sinners like him, humans that were born on earth and mucked up one way or another. They mostly ended up here, at least the really bad ones. That’s what her father always told her anyways. She’s heard all the stories from her childhood: Cain and Abel, Sodom and Gomorrah, Samson and Delilah…she could have sworn there was a story about a rainbow coat somewhere or was that a fever dream?

The main underlining moral of any story: regarding sinners, all were destined to be punished.

 _“And what better place than here!”_ he would exclaim, picking her up while she giggled. He would press his red cheek to hers, and coo,“ _This is hell, my dear! Your home! Where indeed you, being merely born here, are absolved of any sin, but where the sinners burn.”_ She hadn’t understood what her father meant at the time. But in retrospect, he must have meant:

“It’s a constant fire.”

She met Angel’s uncertain gaze with conviction.

“It’s meant to slowly consume everyone.” She blinked hard, “It…it’s a punishment. It’s a punishment meant to look like a playground for sinners, and it’s not. They’re all trapped here.”

She leveled her look at Angel, before breaking eye contact to stare at the ground.

“Hell is a trap. It’s not real. Not in the way everyone here wants it to be, anyway.” She rubbed her arm with her hand before squeezing, the needlelike tips of her claws pricking into her shirt. “It’s my home…but not meant to be yours or any sinners, really.”

Charlie glanced up again, anxiety blooming in her stomach by Angel’s uncharacteristic silence. She knew that it probably wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, but she also couldn’t lie. For years she dealt with the knowledge that Hell was an ultimate prison. Everyone else pretended to be so well-adjusted, and so adept at delusion. Overlords enjoyed a better afterlife than most, this was true, but those in power always slept with one eye open. They needed to be vigilant when, and not if, the next usurper came along.

Everything was always subject to change at a moment’s notice.

Hell was nothing if not unstable.

Exterminator angels came and went, purging sinners and demons alike in their bloodthirsty attempt to cull the growth of Hell. While everyone scrambled in the aftermath, she watched from her tower. She watched as the panic lasted for hours, at best a day, and finally as it settled back to faux normalcy.

Only for it to repeat every year. It’s why she-

“It’s why you made the hotel,” Angel stated.

He was physically looking towards her, but somehow she could tell he was far away at that moment. She knew the feeling. Viscerally.

“Yeah, and I believe it can work.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “It’s going to work.”

She felt a clawed hand grip her shoulder.

“Sure, baby,” Angel said, mimicking one of Alastor’s trademark smiles. The one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. But when she reached out a hand towards him, he jerked back.

“Love ta stay and talk, Princess, but there’s a man I gotta go see about!”

He turned on his heel almost immediately, and before Charlie could blurt out a question, Angel asked, “Didya happen to see the radio clown?”

“Alastor?”

“Yeah, where is the freak? I wanna ask him somethin’.”

Charlie racked her brain, still a little off-kilter by the abrupt change in subject. Then she remembered the conversation she had with Vaggie about Alastor and his overly dramatic reaction to Stolas’s behavior (it involved a fire and a good portion of the third floor), and the last thing her girlfriend shouted before storming off in search of Niffty:

_“When I do find that radio dickwad, I’m ramming that goddamn mic stand up his ass! He’s probably hiding out in that **fucking** room again!”_

“Um…Piano bar? Fourth floor?”

“Thanks babe.”

“No…problem!” Charlie gave a feeble wave to Angel Dust, who seemed to be departing faster than expected. “Have fun?”

* * *

Clawed fingers tapped each key with purpose. The claws did mar the sound so, however that was probably due to everything in Hell being ever-so-slightly inconvenient. He was pleasantly surprised that the piano held its tune from whenever the hell it materialized into existence. The obnoxious label set in gold in the middle of the piano marked it as a Baldwin, which he vaguely registered as his fingers ran over the keys.

A window to his left had been propped open, the far sounds of the city as background accompaniment to his playing. The air circulation, however tepid, allowed him some room to breathe and improve his craft. Piano, at least to Alastor, was one of the instruments he could play heedless of any outside distraction. In fact, he often thought outside influence greatly improved compositions since he would often incorporate the outside sounds, city or otherwise, into his playing. It made for wonderful inspiration for his radio show. And some noises could never be substituted, after all.

**[snap]**

**[pop]**

**[riiiiiip]**

By contrast, performing the harmonica and violin required absence of all sounds for him to concentrate, which was most likely why Alastor tended to gravitate towards the piano as his preferred instrument in Hell.

Pentagram City, while famed for its coveted real estate, was equally known for its noise pollution.

He played the piano straight from memory, dancing his fingers from white to black, right foot alternating the pedals in synchrony. The curve of his hands held steady as his fingers moved, spiderlike, while he focused on the notes emanating from the piano. This time, his muscle memory chose to perform a song he hadn’t realized he still remembered. A building unease seethed up from within as he played. The feeling in the pit of his stomach mimicked bubbles rising to the surface, breaking the still tension with ripples.

This song. This melody.

> _The corrosive stench of spirit spilling onto linen tablecloth. Lightning bugs drifting lazy and aimless in the air, hovering like strung up Christmas lights. Lanterns burning with the last of the oil; the lowlight, subdued and luminous._
> 
> _He can feel everything. The chill floating inland from the bayou, the ensuing shiver forming goosebumps down his skin, the warmth of fingers lacing through his own._
> 
> _If he tips his head just right, the glare from the lanterns slices in half, and there he can see_

“Al?”

He didn’t quite startle, really.

At the very most he hit two wrong notes while a screech of staticky feedback blasted through the air. He spun his head to face the intruder, maintaining a strained smile. There was a distinct snapping sound. His grin widened a bit when the visitor flinched.

“Why hello, Angel,” he said. “To what do I owe this displeasure?”

To his credit, Angel looked somewhat guilty. He shifted his weight on both legs (Alastor noted that his leg seems to have healed) and avoided eye contact. Any perceived guilt born from interrupting Alastor’s train of thought and overall well-being apparently didn’t stop him from blurting out whatever nonsense he had rattling around in that head of his.

“I…uh…” Angel stammered, then took a deep breath and blurted out, “I wanted to thank you. For earlier.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, I was really out of it, and you made sure I was all right,” Angel continued. “Thanks for that.”

There was a weighty pause, and then: “You wanted to _thank_ me for sparing your life and not sending you spiraling through the void as consequence for your comments about my…appendage…earlier this week?”

“What in the fu-“

“Then no worries, my adequately acceptable arachnid friend! Happy to be of service!”

He began playing again, swiveling his head a hundred and eighty degrees back to the piano. He started a different ditty than before, and he would have liked to keep playing it if it weren’t for the distraction. Which stood there still, mouth agape.

“Something else, Angel?”

“Yes! Al, what the hell, no! I’m not talking about that! But you were gonna send me through some void jus’ cuz I said somethin’ about your _tail_?” Angel’s voice rose throughout, cracking at the last word.

“There you go again, speaking utter nonsense, Angel!”

The room’s lighting warped into something darker and more sinister. The static in Alastor’s voice increased, enough so that the next sentence sounded a garbled mess.

“ **You would do your best not to repeat it.** ”

* * *

Angel nodded frantically, glancing up at the chittering shadows climbing the walls. A chill trickled down Angel’s spine as the static rose to a fever pitch. He kept playing the same notes, the sounds becoming louder with every turn.

The Radio Demon waited, unmoving, for a few beats.

Finally, he cracked his neck.

Instantly, the room lightened. The shadows crept back to wherever they slithered out of, and the radio sounds ceased. He resumed playing a normal sounding song, humming as though nothing was wrong.

Angel fucking hated when he did that.

He fought between glaring at the back of Alastor’s head and giving up entirely, but eventually stubbornness won out.

“I didn’t mean that, Smiles. I meant that night last month, ya know when I was fucked up and you…” He paused, unsure of how to finish the sentence exactly.

As he hesitated, he found himself fixating on the novel bareness of Alastor’s forearms. Angel admired the blackened shade adorning his hands, seeping up to his elbows. A jagged mark peeked out from under the folded sleeves.

_A tattoo? Scar?_

His fingers itched to pull back the sleeve further. He resisted, as any sinner with half a brain would, especially after that display. _Curiosity killed the cat, after all._

_But satisfaction-_

Halfway through his rumination, Angel realized abruptly that Alastor’s fingers had stilled. The absence of music only accentuated the tension budding in the air. Angel, not being one for silence at all (and even less for unnecessary lapses in classical symphonies), said, “Thanks for takin’ care of me that night. I…really appreciated it.”

For a long moment, neither Angel or Alastor reacted. As the seconds passed by, Angel used that time to berate his apparent hubris.

 _Great_ , he thought. _This is where either I die, or get chewed up and voided out. I knew I fucking probably hallucinated that shit! Goddamit, godfuckingdammit-_

“You good.”

The whiplash caused by Alastor’s response just about broke the spider demon’s neck. There was no trace of Alastor’s performance accent or any static in that voice. To Angel, it sounded like the guy broke, packed his bags, and then relocated to the American south. His brain scrambled to make sense of it. It sounded nothing like the Radio Demon. The voice sounded almost-

Alastor, for his part, seemed to catch the discrepancy quickly. “You’re very welcome, Angel,” he corrected, reverting back to his normal stage voice. Angel didn’t even need to look to see the bared teeth in that yellowed smile. “And if there’s nothing else.”

He raised his right hand theatrically, as if to resume playing, but was interrupted.

“Yeah there is.”

Angel inhaled once: deeply, for courage.

“I wanna repay ya, Al. It meant a lot to me at the time, I mean, I was inna low space.” Angel’s fingers twitched at his sides, but he continued.

“Lemme take ya out to dinner. Or drinks. Or a show. Anything.”

Alastor cricked his neck, and sighed. “Angel, I don’t-“

“Not like a date! I promise!” The spider demon hurriedly moved to Alastor’s peripheral, arms outstretched and palms up. “Promise. No flirting or freaky shit. I jus’ wanna show you that I,” he gulped, “Understand. And I’d kinda like to get to know you. Better. Like a prisoner and warden, if anything.”

Alastor remained silent, so he added, “And you could get to know me! Hey, who knows what kinda secrets I know. Being around those overlords and all.”

Since living at the hotel, Angel had picked up on the interesting tics of the hotel residents. Being a sex worker, his capacity to interpret body language was paramount; even though hell was packed to the brim with rapists, Angel definitely erred on the side of “fuck no means fuck no”. He was slightly surprised to see that some of the residents were firmly on his side of the caution tape, and were also vocally (and physically, when push eventually came to shove) insistent on those views as well. Angel’s background in the sex industry gave him an edge. It allowed him to observe body language then quickly pick up on nonverbal cues.

He noticed that when Husk was close to murdering someone at the bar, his right wing would fold in towards his body, and his index finger would start tapping out the rhythm to a random song on the bar counter. The Door’s “Hello, I Love You” was the reigning champion, but Angel witnessed a few other ones that he didn’t know the lyrics to but recognized from the playlist at the studio. When Niffty was bored, she rapped her knuckles on her thighs. When she felt exhausted, she pinched the bridge of her nose. Charlie hiccupped when anxiety overwhelmed her, and Vaggie scratched at a birthmark on her inner wrist during one of her pensive moods.

Angel noticed that whenever Alastor was troubled, he drew his shoulders in a taut line and amped up his radio persona. In those times, he would appear, with no naked skin showing apart from his neck, face, and hair.

His method in showing control, Angel realized, was in convincing the public that he had absolute control of himself.

People like Alastor were obsessed with controlling their own narrative. In Angel’s experience, they were obsessed with the narrative only because the actual truth was flimsy at best. Their whole goal in life culminated in the persuasion of the public.

Image was king. Image was everything.

The ruse concealed the fact that behind the curtain, there was almost nothing. The entire system was manned and supervised by a single mortal man, shrouding himself with smoke and mirrors.

All fault remained their own.

Because surely, if they could fool others, there may be a chance they could convince themselves.

Alastor rolled his right shoulder, and Angel instantly recognized it as an acquiesce. He feigned disinterest when Alastor slowly placed his hands to his side, swiveled around, and then faced him.

“I accept your invitation,” Alastor finally said. “Might I pick the place?”

Angel felt the coiled ball in his chest loosen a fraction, and then tighten again.

He stared at Alastor’s half-lidded gaze and admitted, “Go ahead, Straw. I ain’t got no place I can think of right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title are lyrics from the song "All of Me" by Billie Holiday


	3. One for my baby (and one more for the road)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortest chapter of the 8.5 written my friends
> 
> Needed a segue
> 
> Happy Purim

“Where the fuck are you going?”

Vaggie projected her voice towards Angel’s favorite spot in the lobby, a cozy alcove surrounded by the hotel’s arguably nicest centerpiece, the aquarium. The enormous fish tank spanned the length of two tennis courts, and boasted a height of three stories. Hellfins, Satan sharks, demonfish, and the occasional Siren swam laps in lazy circles while visitors lingered in the sitting area below. The water, a murky grey, was just translucent enough to showcase all the specimens inside during the day. At night, a scattering of purple and red bulbs lit up in luminous flares throughout the tank, splashing the underwater scene in a diffused haze.

Personally, the nocturnal backdrop reminded Vaggie of strip club lighting, but she held her tongue, especially since Charlie had looked so pleased at the unveiling. She supposed it was also why Angel gravitated towards it so damn much.

Embedded just under the glass were small but spacious alcoves, designed to allow guests a quick reprieve from redemption duties. The area was especially popular with the majority of the guests, with the exception of Baxter. The fish demon took one look at it during the grand unveiling, muttered some choice words, and stomped back to his lab.

Which was understandable, to an extent. She didn’t know how she would feel about the installation of a moth garden in the hotel. Even after living her whole life as a human. Satan knows when she’d developed some weird kinship with the damned things, especially after crash landing in Hell. In the body of a fucking moth demon.

 _Ugh_ , she thought. _Here’s that migraine coming on_. She unclenched her jaw to release tension, tilted her head, and yelled, “Angel! Did I fucking stutter?”

The architecture in that area was built to be especially prone to echoing, which pleased her to no end when she figured it out. Angel and Husk, both passed out in the nooks prior to the discovery, were less pleased. She took it all in stride. This hotel, after all, was created to rehabilitate sinners, not to serve as their little hangover haven.

The aforementioned sinner was currently draped over a couch, fiddling with his phone and resolutely ignoring her. She marched towards him, hackles raised.

Angel shoved his head backwards onto the lounge pillows and groaned.

“Mind your business, lady,” Angel said. “I’ll be outta your hair in about five minutes.”

“Not before you tell me where the hell you think you’re going.” Vaggie squinted her eye. “Is that makeup?”

He placed two of his hands over the side of his head, where Vaggie was reasonably certain his ears were, and started loudly snoring. She pinched the bridge of her nose, a habit she picked up from Niffty, and counted to ten.

_I am not going to kill him today. I am not killing him. We just got the carpets cleaned._

After a moment, she exhaled and tried again.

“Are you working at the club again tonight? You know we can’t let you do that because of what happened last time so…”

“That ain’t where I’m headin’ tonight, so you can relax your asshole.”

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…_

“Fine, dickhead, so where the fuck are you going?”

He lifted his head and shot her a grin. “If you wanna know, I have a date.”

“A date?” A high pitched voice asked to the side of him. Niffty’s head popped up from behind a lounge chaise. “With who?”

“Noneyabusiness, that’s who.”

“Angel, you goddamn liar, I know you’re not going out on a date-”

“Is he handsome? Does he dance? Cook? Does he have a brother? Is his brother single?”

“You think I can’t get anyone to date me? Listen sugar, just ‘cuz your moving van lesbian ass landed Charlie the minute you got here, don’t mean everyone’s a lost cause.”

“Oh boy, is it a first date? Angel, don’t make it too easy for him! A gentleman always should work for it!”

“Who the fuck are ya callin’ easy? Just cuz I’m a porn star, don’t mean any of this is for free!”

“Did you just call me a U-Haul lesbian? Why you little-”

“If you’re all quite done?”

The room went silent at the uptick in static. The only noise besides the buzzing interference was the sound of heels clicking on the floor. Vaggie turned to greet and berate the intruder, before her mouth dropped open in shock. She didn’t need to look at everyone to envision the expressions mirrored on their faces. The Radio Demon strode towards the gaping onlookers, looking pleased as punch.

Vaggie spoke first, which was unusual considering present company.

“Alastor. What in the fuck. Are you wearing.”

Instead of his usual pinstripe suit and bowtie, Alastor had apparently chose to wear what ordinary demons feasibly wore on Casual Fridays. His outfit consisted of a black collared shirt, loose tie, gloves, and slacks the same shade of the shirt. The sleeves of the shirt were folded up to his elbows, exposing the charred shade of his forearms. Vaggie had only seen Alastor roll up his sleeves during cooking and on like, three other occasions. Other than that, he wore his shirts meticulously buttoned to the wrist, hands encased near constantly in leather gloves. However, that wasn’t the most surprising wardrobe choice. No, the absolute stunning part was Alastor’s hair.

Done up in a fucking ponytail.

Also, the tie had a pattern that looked like Garfield the cartoon cat in various sleeping positions, but she was used to some level of chaos from this guy.

Just not _that_ much.

“I know I usually ask Angel this, but…are you high?”

He let out a booming laugh. “No, at least I don’t think so!”

If she had not been within (fairly) close proximity with Alastor over these last few years, Vaggie probably would not have described what he did next as “twirling.” However and unfortunately for her, she had become accustomed to enough of his idiosyncrasies to not call it anything but. He twirled on his ridiculous dress shoes and said, “Too casual? I can liven things up a bit, if you’d like.”

And then proceeded to turn the shirt into the gaudiest Hawaiian shirt that she had ever seen in her death.

In life, that award went to Uncle Luis who showed up at the family barbecue following his week-long vacation to Hawaii. There was not enough alcohol at that thing to sufficiently wipe her memory of it.

“Jesus, Mary, and Judas, Al, change it back!”

“Noooooo,” whispered Niffty.

Before her untimely death, Vaggie was not the type to involve herself in other people’s business. Her modus operandi was mainly to stay alive. She turned a blind eye to her cousin’s involvement in the local mob, her brother’s addiction to painkillers, and her sister’s multilevel marketing venture. She prided on keeping to herself up until the day of her death, when all of their decisions culminated in the perfect storm, and the tidal wave she was so intent on holding back swallowed her whole.

After death, Vaggie made it her business to know everything. She owed it to Charlie, _no_ , she needed to protect Charlie from everything that ignorance inevitably brought. Charlie was the Princess of Hell, that was true, and reigned in Hell longer than Vaggie’d been dead or alive, but she was wonderfully naïve at times. Some of it was due to her mother’s sheltering, but most of it stemmed from her innate drive to help others. She couldn’t help but to see the best in them, even degenerates like Alastor. There was a driving force within her that was completely capable of human-like empathy. If Vaggie was entirely honest with herself, Charlie’s gentle and forgiving nature carved a place in her heart from the minute they met. Somewhere along the way, she took it upon herself to be her girlfriend’s guardian, and made damn well sure no one broke that spirit.

And because of Vaggie’s finely tuned senses to root out bullshit, she heard the desperation in Angel’s plea, and noticed as Alastor transformed his shirt back from the Hawaiian monstrosity in response. Something clicked in her head, and it was probably because it broke.

“Alastor. Are you Angel’s date?”

Alastor simply smiled down at her, eyes full of mirth, unblinking. The radio sounds emanating from the demon sounded more or less the same, and Vaggie took that as a cue towards the negative. On the cusp of admitting ignorance and partially due to that weird headache she’d been suffering lately, Vaggie turned towards the door. She made it about a foot and a half before Alastor said:

“Of course I am! Who else would it be?”

* * *

Angel Dust was currently offline.

That’s what Velvet would say, were she present, and thank Satan she was not. She’d probably give Vaggie a run for her money, and Angel really, really did not want more of those women near him.

And if Angel Dust was offline, Vaggie was short-circuiting.

“How…” she gestured madly in the air. “You don’t even…are you even…” She blurted out more half-coherent fragments before circling back to, “How?”

From his frozen position on the couch, Angel swore the bastard was preening. Whether it was over the attention or the shock on everyone’s faces, he could only guess.

“How indeed! What an interesting question!” he boomed, and proceeded to ignore it entirely.

He walked towards Angel Dust, and stopped roughly two feet from him.

“Are you ready, my dear?”

Angel tried to ignore the fluttering feeling in his stomach; denying his flight or fight instincts was definitely what he excelled at anyway. He inwardly took a deep breath.

 _Here it goes, Anthony. Try not to die tonight._ Rows of sharp teeth filled his line of sight. _Piss him off once and you’ll get to feel what being double-dead’s like._

Angel stood. “Ready when you are, baby.”

Alastor reached out his hand.

A string of very creative Spanish curses littered the air, and he barely caught Niffty’s manic ramblings before grabbing the outstretched hand. Suddenly the noise flickered out, the backdrop of the hotel faded to black, and all that seemed to exist in the void were red dials disguised as eyes. The pit of his stomach plummeted, akin to a sudden launch out of plane, a spiraling careen with the wind and ground rushing up at his face. He frantically swiveled his head, attempting to regain a semblance of normality. His sight was only met with darkness and the void. A current of radio frequency soundbites echoed in that space:

_Thanks for tuning in to station one-oh-one point…_

_And so I said to him, that isn’t how you eat couscous!” [laugh track]_

_…reports of a suspicious individual spotted in the Lower Ninth Ward…_

_And, after thirty days, jaw mutilation!_

His limbs felt repressively heavy. Blackness bled into the corners of his vision. He couldn’t seem to remember how to breathe as the impossible darkness crept towards him, and he felt his eyelids fluttering in time with his rapid heartbeat.

And then he slammed into pavement, effectively jarring him out of the nightmare.

“Fuck!”

“We’re here!” Alastor chirped. He leaned over so that his grinning face was nearer to the floor, and therefore, to Angel Dust’s face. “Apologies for the bumpy ride!”

“What the fuck is your problem? Goddamnit, that hurt!”

The Radio Bastard didn’t look the least bit contrite from Angel’s point of view. He merely maintained his grin, straightening up and appearing for all the world as if they weren’t just catapulted through a spinning void of death.

Angel slowly adjusted, sitting upright despite the throbbing pain. He didn’t recognize the area. There was the absence of neon signs and blinding marquees for one; for another, the street was unusually clean and free of blood and debris, and Lucifer, it was _quiet_.

Alastor started walking towards the nearest streetlamp, so Angel followed. They passed a couple more, along with what looked to be restaurants or cafes; all of the venues so far looked either closed or seemed to be private establishments, a lone light perched above a shut door as the sole indication of occupancy. After passing the sixth one, Angel opened his mouth to ask a question.

As if on cue, Alastor interrupted.

“No talking. We’ll be there soon.”

Angel complied, but not without rolling his eyes. He mentally tallied: _streetlight, crackhouse, streetlight, rusted sign, another crackhouse, house with porch, house without a porch, crackhouse number three…_

Until suddenly, Alastor stopped in front of a door.

The placement of the door was unsettling; it looked almost painted on in the midst of a wall stretched along a squat building. There were no windows present at all, and the building, along with its door, was a slate grey. Even the hinges and doorknob were covered in that dreary color. It reeked of freshly dried paint, and Angel’s skin crawled with the implication.

He resolutely ignored his gut feeling for the second time that week and stood stock still as Alastor rapped out a series of taps with his knuckles. When he finished, a loud clacking and creaking of bolts could be heard from behind the door. Angel stepped back.

The door swung open.

Now, Angel could hear faint musical notes emanating from within. Stringed lights illuminated the hallway, but just barely, and darkness beckoned at the end. No one, save Alastor and himself, was there.

He felt a warmth on the small of his back, pushing him forward.

“After you, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And, after thirty days, jaw mutilation” is a line from Welcome to Night Vale’s tenth episode (Feral Dogs)
> 
> The chapter’s title comes from the song, “One for My Baby” by a whole bunch of people, but the Billie Holiday or Ella Fitzgerald versions are good


	4. I may pretend (but in the end, I’m just fooling myself)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My notes say "OOC=semi-solid reasoning" so I adjusted a tag to state "slow burn"
> 
> Also, apparently, Cajun is different from Creole. I weirdly get it
> 
> I wanted to do away with this but
> 
> Happy St. Patrick's

The first thing Angel noticed was the dimness.

Glimmering firelights dotted the landscape, casting moving shadows across indiscernible faces. The peat stench of cigars, layered amongst spicy notes of oriental perfume, permeated every wooden surface. Subsequently, the air was thick with smoke, but not in an unpleasant way. It settled in the area like a rolling fog, reminding Angel of times long past. Soft, unobtrusive jazz played as background accompaniment to the murmurs of patrons and bar staff alike. For the life of him, Angel couldn’t recognize any of the guests milling about. He quickly noticed that if he tried to focus on the visages of any customers in the bar, everything would immediately blur and distort.

 _Ah_ , he thought. _A Clandestine Club._

He’d heard rumors about these places, snatched from bits and pieces of gossip circling the studio. A handful of the other girls danced or turned tricks to supplement their income, just as he did when he was in need of an early payday. It was not unheard of; Val turned a blind eye to these ventures as long as he was given a cut of the earnings. What was uncommon though, was the nature of the bars and clubs that these girls operated out of. These exclusive establishments prided themselves on utmost client privacy, but that privilege came with a list of restrictions, rules, and caveats. Most didn’t bother, or so he thought, but peering out at the sea of misshapen faces, he deduced that a sizeable consumer base existed.

Most of the patrons sat at smaller tables. Angel spotted about ten or twelve bodies at the bar top. So far, there was but the one entrance (and exit), and the tenebrous lighting made it difficult for him to gauge any alternative routes. He glanced around, squinting in an attempt to discern past the smoke. Angel frowned. The bar seemed to stretch on forever, even though on the outside it appeared to be about a quarter of a block long. The thought barely grazed his mind before the claws at the small of his back unceremoniously shoved him into a booth.

“Fuckin’…ya could’ve told me to sit, asshole!” he groused.

Alastor ignored him. He sat down across from Angel, the furthest distance possible. Naturally, Angel scooted around the u-bend, closing the distance between the two. The telltale radio static substantially increased, and Angel forced himself to stop a foot shy of where he was aiming. He had wanted to survive this date, for the most part.

“As you can see, this is a discreet establishment,” Alastor said, raising an eyebrow and emphasizing the adjective, “but not entirely private. As I would like to maintain my reputation, you will behave to the best of your admittedly lackluster ability.”

He leaned closer so that Angel had front row seats to that shark gleam.

“Do I make myself clear?”

A waitress stopped to take their order, but not before Angel muttered, “Crystal.”

“Macallan on the rocks, dear. Anything older than twelve.” He tilted his head toward Angel. “And he would like…”

“Double vodka and soda inna big glass, sweets.”

“Well okay?”

“Goose if ya got it, if not, Tito’s fine.”

She left as quickly as she appeared. Angel leaned back, and once again fixated on his surroundings. The bar resembled a speakeasy that he’d visited in life, one that hadn’t changed its style from the 1920s during the heyday of Prohibition. The atmosphere was eerily similar to the jazz bars in the living world, an oddity in Hell. Most southern venues were much more bacchanal, exotic, and downright _raunchy_. Nothing close to what he had experienced in life. Of course, that was all subject to the changeable nature of men. Who knew what sinners got up to in the present.

He sighed and peeled off his gloves. Angel stuck the pair in his purse, shoving both beneath the ocean of dollar bills. It was warm enough in Hell as it were, and hotter still in the enclosed space. Even though heat was just minor inconvenience for most demons, it was well-established that Angel was a bit of diva, and he also may have painted his nails in anticipation for his not-date.

To nobody’s surprise and Angel’s annoyance, Alastor did not speak until their drinks were set in front of them. Alastor raised his glass. Angel repeated the gesture and moved slightly forward so that they clinked.

“Cheers, asshole,” Angel said, then took a sip of his drink while his companion mirrored him.

“Why the tall glass?” Alastor asked, speaking finally. Angel grinned.

“Honey, I finish a double faster than a song. It’s ta keep pace. Can’t have ya landin’ me on the first date, right?” He leaned closer. “I get _sloppy_ when I’m drunk.”

Alastor flew to the edge of the booth, an instinctual reflex to sudden proximity.

“No, we can’t have that, can we!” A nervous laugh track sounded somewhere close. Angel brought the straw to his lips and drank deeply. He finished a good portion of the drink, and smirked at Alastor’s expression.

“Fine, Al, I’ll stop teasin’ ya. For now.” Angel ran his fingers absentmindedly around the glass and said, “Anyway, I jus’ wanna tell you again. Thanks.”

“As I’ve said before, Angel, it was no… _skin_ …off my back!” The grin grew fractionally. “It would be positively remiss if I didn’t come to our premier resident’s aid.”

“Yeah, yeah, it just was kinda outta character for ya, being decent an’ all. Thought you was gonna throw me out on my ass.”

“I wouldn’t have done that,” Alastor said, so quietly that Angel strained to hear it above the music. He rotated the glass in gloved fingers, eyes following the weak candlelight as it glinted off its angles.

“You looked like you’d been manhandled enough.”

In the silence that followed, Angel blinked hard. He glanced at Alastor, whose smile had gone weaker, and that fucking thing that lived in his chest unfurled at the sight. In this crepuscular jazz bar, the Radio Demon seemed a bit unbalanced, for once. The sight was arresting. Alastor, in the years that he’d known him, never looked so nonplussed.

While the waitress walked towards them with a drink balanced on her tray, Angel could almost visualize what he might have looked like a century ago. A handsome young man of maybe thirty or so years of age, fiddling with his drink in an illegal speakeasy. Tapping his foot to the music, charming his fellow patrons with a sly smile bordered by a dimple or two. Definitely someone he would’ve risked having his heart ripped out of his chest for.

And that murderous bastard would’ve probably done it himself.

As the waitress swapped out his empty glass for a new drink, Angel decided to cut the tension. Heavier subjects would most likely ruin the mood, which was decidedly not Angel’s intention for this already rare outing.

“Say, Smiles, speaking of outta character, did I hear ya right last time? That accent, though! Where’re ya from originally?”

* * *

Alastor truly enjoyed the atmosphere of this particular bar. It had a strange, moody _je ne sais quoi_ about it, which kept him coming back on slower days between his radio show and hotel duties. He mostly preferred to come alone, but there were a handful of times when he would bring friends, acquaintances, allies, and apparently now, _dates_. Except this was most assuredly not one of those, if he had anything to say about it.

_We don’t do those anymo’, now do we?_

He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, a last minute distraction, and almost missed the question.

“Originally?” he parroted.

Alastor was intensely secretive; he honed this skill while alive for obvious reasons, and in the end, was glad for that. Hell masticated sinners and spat them back out. Secrets acted as guidebooks to lure them towards those anticipatory maws. They were great weapons wielded by greater manipulators. No finer evisceration existed. As it were, there were few things that people knew about Alastor, and most of them were likely not about his past life.

Still, he turned the question over in his head. In the decades gone by, a select few were privy to the more benign specifics of his human life. And a near century had passed. Surely there was no harm in discussing such blasé details. Call it an exchange for any secrets Angel may be harboring.

_Would it do him no harm to voice what has been sprinting around his head for the past few months because it won’t leave him alone they won’t leave him alone-_

“Why Angel, can’t you tell?” He faced the spider demon, and propped a fist under his chin, elbow rooted on the table. “New Orleans, born and raised! Now dear, you’ve got to be more observant than that.” The sclera of his eyes glowed ember red in the dim.

“Especially here,” he said, _sotto voce_.

That earned a scoff from his drinking partner.

“I’ve been in hell almost as long as you, toots. An’ I’m still here. Counts for somethin’, don’t it?”

Alastor raised a brow, biting back amusement. Angel caught the gesture, and crossed his secondary set of limbs, pouting dramatically. Nevertheless, he trudged on.

“Al, ya talk like some showbiz hotshot, so how am I supposed to fuckin’ know you came from The Big Easy? Louisiana’s fuckin’ huge. Anyway, now that I think ‘bout it, that was a pretty heavy accent.”

“Angel, you’re aware that you currently speak with one.”

“What? Me? No way, bub, everyone else talks weird. I’m fuckin’ normal.” Angel winked at him, and Alastor unconsciously barked out a laugh. He took another deep sip of his drink.

“I mean, you just said it: ‘New Or-lins.’ That ain’t right, Al. It’s ‘New Or-leens’ or bust.”

“We’re going to pretend that you never said anything, especially something so blatantly wrong.”

“Y’know, when I was alive, I hadda pal from there. Or was it Baton Rouge? Anyway, he said the craziest shit! ‘Lazy lay bon ton roolay’ or something. Every single fuckin’ time he drank with us.” Angel laughed. “Which was all the time. Guy was a fat ol’ drunk.”

Alastor let out what sounded suspiciously like a whimper.

“Purgatory, it’s ‘ _Laissez les bons temps rouler_ ’, you absolute heathen.” He watched Angel’s gold tooth catch one of the tiny fragments of light, and tried his absolute best to beat him to the punch.

“Angel my dear, perhaps you should stick to what you know, and leave the actual oratory to the experts.”

“Piss off, Al. I’m an oral expert,” he said, sticking out his tongue. Alastor shuddered dramatically, mostly for show. He was expecting some degree of crassness.

“Degenerate. I meant something else entirely, but per usual, you twist my words.”

He signaled the waitress to bring over another set of drinks. He looked down at his near-empty glass. _I should probably slow down,_ he thought. _It just won’t do to let my guard down, especially here._ The bar was nicely situated between the Third and Fourth Circles, but it was still closer than he would like to the domain of certain overlords, and far enough from his radio tower and the hotel.

He glanced up at Angel’s lack of diatribe, and discovered a mischievous smile forming on the other demon’s face. In the past couple of months, Alastor found that he either had a deep dislike for the expression or fond amusement-especially when it was directed towards someone else. His feelings on the matter oscillated disturbingly regularly.

Alastor downed the remains of his drink.

“Speakin’ of degenerates.” Angel smirked. “Heard ya hadda fight off Stolas the other day.”

At the mention of the name, Alastor’s right eye twitched.

“Please refrain from saying that hedonist’s name.” He adjusted his monocle. “That infernal bird is either deaf or stupid or heinously noncompliant, and refuses to adhere to basic standards of decency.”

Angel stifled a laugh. “Worse than Val? I heard he was trynna find out if ya hadda…” he trailed off, tilting his head towards the seat.

“Infinitely. If he attempts to touch me again, I will strangle the bird with his own spinal cord, Prince of Hell be damned.”

Radio static rose over the bar noise. Patrons shifted uneasily in their seats and bar staff flicked nervous glances towards their table, all of which did not go unnoticed by Alastor. He placed two gloved fingers to his temple in an attempt to lower the static. He’d rather the night keep on its intended track; his status as an overlord barely rescued him from being banned the last time. Coppery miasma still clung to the wooden splinters along the bar. The couches affected appeared to be reupholstered. He had noted they changed the color of the tablecloths from white to black.

“So…is this a thing ya have?” Angel ventured, seemingly mindful of the uptick.

Alastor raised his gaze, removing his fingers. “Thing? The noises? Angel, we’ve known each other for years now, you should know it’s par for the-”

He shook his head. “No, no, Smiles. _Touch_. Ya don’t like it when people touch you, especially without your permission.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Alastor furrowed his brow. His drinking partner shrugged.

“Some people are touch-starved. Some don’t care one way or another.”

“I don’t like when people I dislike or mistrust touch me without my explicit permission,” he clarified.

“Boss, that’s everyone.”

There was a pregnant pause. Then, Alastor started to laugh. Angel joined in, as well as the ever-present laugh track. For a fraction of a second, the gravitational pull vanished, and Alastor, for the first time in many years, felt untethered.

As it died down, Alastor shot him an easy smile, tilting his head on the hand that supported it. Angel, to his utter surprise, lurched as far backwards he could go, and cupped his face with two of his hands, covering his cheeks. Alastor’s fingers twitched, involuntarily reacting to the sudden movement. As if realizing the strangeness in his actions, Angel immediately dropped his hands on the table, exposing a light dusting of darker rose in his otherwise pale pink fur.

“I…uh, get red when I drink, okay?” he sputtered out at Alastor’s bemused expression.

“Ah,” Alastor said, still confused, and turned towards the waitress, allowing Angel time to deal with his queer affliction. By the time he turned back, Angel seemed to have regained most of his composure.

“Hey, Al.” He avoided eye contact, fidgeting with the straw in his drink. Alastor noted that he still looked a bit green around the gills. “How ‘bout people you like?”

“Come again?”

“Is there…was there anyone ya liked enough to touch you without your permission? Ya know, any exception to the rule?”

> _The lightning bugs obscure his vision. His glasses droop lower, past the bridge of his nose. The air is sticky in that night._
> 
> _The world is swaying. He is swaying, and the night is stygian, blurry, viscous._
> 
> _But the fingertips pressing against his pulse are warm. And the stars_

The dull thud of incoming drinks on tableclothed wood pried him back to reality. The sounds rushed in at once, overriding the assault on the rest of his senses. He forced the static, thankfully indistinct, down to submission. It took all his strength not to swipe for the glass and down its contents. He willed his hand to approach the glass slowly, taking caution not to shatter it when his fingers found purchase. He glanced at Angel, who appeared torn between wanting an answer and inquiring about his wellbeing.

A _t least he deigned to make eye contact now_ , Alastor thought. _Meekness was always a weakness._

He held up his glass to the twilit firelight, brought it back down to his lips, and drank deeply before speaking.

“No,” Alastor lied.

“Oh,” Angel said, looking away again.

This time, Alastor could sense something else hanging heavy and unsaid in the air between them. It equally unsettled and intrigued him. However, he was unprepared for how much it bothered him. His hand twitched away from the glass, and he watched as it lifted slightly towards his companion as if to…

[record scratch]

**_No_ **

He promptly slapped his hand down. The noise startled Angel, who whipped his head towards Alastor.

“Wha-”

The Radio Demon laughed, radio amplification coloring his voice. “Angel dear, I’m an overlord of Hell. One doesn’t become Overlord by allowing exceptions to rules!” He waggled a finger in Angel’s face.

“Of course there were none, and there never will be,” he lied again.

Angel flashed him a shaky smile. “Right, yeah, untouchable Overlord, got it.”

Jazz notes glided through the now dead space, signaling the end of the conversation. Angel looked folded in on himself; his upper and middle limbs wrapped around his torso. If Alastor hazarded a guess, he seemed to be positively disappointed for some reason. Alastor racked his brain, deftly ignoring the strands of those intrusive thoughts. The spider demon was well known to be mercurial at the best of times, although what part was due to intoxication, Alastor wasn’t sure.

More to the point, why did he care?

The empty glasses on the table caught his eye. _Ah._

Clearly, he had indulged too much.

“Angel, I hate to cut our evening short,” he started to say.

“Yeah, Smiles. I get it. It’s gettin’ late anyway.” He grinned, despite his earlier demeanor. “Don’t I got a curfew to follow?”

Alastor flashed him a grin laden with shark teeth. “No curfew needed when accompanied by the gaoler, dear.”

“Well, when you put it that way!” He lifted his drink (“Salute!”) and tilted his head back to swallow the contents. Alastor watched, gaze settling on the flickering effect the candlelight patterned on his fur. An interesting thought wormed its way through his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this content since getting caught up in the hotel. The atmosphere, the music. It was all very reminiscent of a past life, nearly a century ago.

He watched as Angel looked towards him, the ghost of the previous blush noticeable on his cheeks.

Yes, he really should come to this bar more often.

“You’re right, Al. We should be heading back.” He reached for his purse, but Alastor put up a hand.

“My treat, Angel Dust. This was a remarkably entertaining evening; all things, present company included, considered!”

Angel appeared to roll his eyes at the accompanying laugh track, but there was a tug at the corner of his lips. “Ya know I wanted to get you back to say thanks, ya goof,” he sighed. “Plus it was me that asked you out, so technically I’m supposed to pay.”

“Is that how it works nowadays?” Alastor’s eyes lit up with a red glow, as the buzzing sound that often accompanied it increased in volume. “No, no, Angel Dust. Allow me. Some things just can’t be tortured out of someone!” He laughed. “Besides, my mother would kill me if she ever found out!”

“I…Smiles, ya don’t…”

Without even thinking, he placed his hand over Angel’s wrist. The startle that erupted from the spider demon wasn’t nearly as entertaining as the comical widening of his mismatched eyes. Alastor hurriedly patted the hand as his brain caught up with him.

“You can cover the next one,” he said, the unbidden words streaming out of his mouth. _The exact opposite way the whisky flowed in,_ he thought ruefully. _Well, nothing to be done about it, best to save that particular promise for the morning._

“Ya got yourself a deal, Al!”

Alastor sighed as he settled the tab, taking care not to drop his smile around the bar staff. He signed his blood signature with a flourish, and meandered back to the table in an attempt to heal his wound. As he approached their table, Angel swung his legs to exit the booth, and Alastor operated on autopilot, holding out his hand. The red splotches gracing his cheeks bloomed starkly again. Alastor wondered if it was a common allergy.

As he pulled Angel upwards and towards him, he was suddenly aware of the distance between them. Angel stumbled slightly, his heels catching on the carpet, but he righted himself without further ado. They exited the establishment, both parties a bit drunk, but none the worse for wear. The night breeze enveloped them in an uncommon chill. Alastor moved to open a portal, but Angel’s voice beat him to it.

“Al…” he said, quietly, “Walk me home?”

Alastor looked at him for a long moment. Angel shivered, nervously shifting his weight from heel to heel. Long used to the practicality of portal travel, he hesitated for a moment. When he witnessed Angel’s slump of acquiesce during that beat, something floating loose snagged tight again. He braced himself for the voices, but none came.

Alastor faced Angel, a thousand and one admonishments barreling in his head, and said:

“Yes.”

They walked into the lanterned street, mindful of the silence.

_And the stars glint above._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Laissez les bons temps rouler" means something along the lines of “Let the good times roll” in Cajun French
> 
> Chapter title is from “Fooling Myself” sung by Billie Holiday


	5. Without your love (I’m like a song without words)

Problem was, Angel couldn’t stop thinking about that night.

And the night prior to it.

And every other night before that, in retrospect. They told him that hindsight was twenty-twenty, but it didn’t click until he was six feet under.

Every time he circled back to his memories, at least the ones of when he was alive, an awful feeling came alive in his chest. He couldn’t pinpoint it, exactly; the sensation was akin to regaining consciousness after “browning out” and having unexpected recollections barreling towards you all at once. It was both foreign and familiar, a queer liminal space that made him dizzy with unease.

It was like trying to recall a memory so far into the past that the edges were blurred, and the picture too waterlogged to show anything besides a basic outline and smudges of color.

He supposed it could be written off as a side effect of PAWS, the post-acute withdrawal hell that he was currently in the thrall of. While his namesake mirrored his drug of choice, Angel dabbled in a wide assortment throughout the years, in Hell or otherwise. Valentino particularly liked him off his mind on coke while doing gangbang scenes: he told him later that it made him “sloppy but focused, in a good way.”

His last boyfriend was partial to opiates. Correction: his last boyfriend preferred fucking into him while he nodded off. Angel recalled blearily rousing with his legs wide open, watching with blurred vision as he loomed over him, thrusting, until the blissful warmth curled around the back of his skull and he shut his eyes again. In the end, he hated it. He hated being ridden like a racehorse while fucked up, not being able to derive or remember any pleasure come morning.

He remembered stumbling into the hotel after the fight. He collapsed into a chaise in the lobby, overwhelmed with nausea and intrusive thoughts. When he came to, it was to Vaggie’s angry but concerned face, of all people. She cupped his face, uncharacteristically tender, and pressed what felt like stinging cold to the right side of his face.

She told him in no uncertain terms that they were dealing with that asshole in an extremely violent way right that minute, and for him to get his ass back to sleep and to rest now, stupid stubborn jerk.

It was days later when he found out that they dispatched Alastor.

His phone revealed no new messages, text or voicemail, and he chalked it up to either the asshole biding his time or it being truly over. He drank two bottles of wine (“good fucking riddance”) to the former, and simultaneously chain-smoked and sobbed on Cherri’s shoulder at the latter. He _had_ been good to Angel, more so than the rest of his ex-boyfriends. He complimented him on a daily basis and asked him how his day was after picking him up from the studio. He brought him roses after each successful shoot, and snuggled with him on off nights to movies that Angel chose (and that he necessarily didn’t care for). If he sometimes lost his temper like the time he poured a pot of boiling water over his hand while accusing him of sleeping with Husk, or the time when he choked him out in the restroom of a club after insisting that Angel “talked down” to him in front of his boys, then it was just because it was Angel’s fault. He shouldn’t have stepped out of line. Right?

 _Wrong_. The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Vaggie.

It was weeks later when he found out that Alastor was the one that initially spotted him, bruised but breathing, in the lobby. He then went of his own accord to, as Husk and Charlie put it, “Sit a fellow sinner down and exchange some words about damaging hotel property.”

Angel, months later, finally listened to a recording of the radio show the night Alastor left.

It was one of the most brutally gruesome shows he had the displeasure of listening to.

Admittedly, his opinion did not count for very much. He had only started tuning in to the Radio Demon’s shows since the guy showed up to co-run the hotel. Angel was surprised when he first began listening to it, expecting a performance reminiscent of 1920s and 1930s radio. There were main aspects of those shows, to be sure, but Alastor’s shows were a class of its own, a veritable hodgepodge of variety. Vaggie once informed him that the show seemed to be one of the only ways in which Alastor actively modernized. She said parts of it, like the addition of songs and the lengthy storytelling bits, were most likely inspired by modern radio stations and podcasts (whatever those were), respectively. In any case, the show encompassed an enormous range of topics and styles. He hated to admit it, but the shows the Radio Demon broadcasted captured his complete attention.

Evidently, he wasn’t the only one who found themselves enraptured by the radio show. The Radio Demon’s listeners and fans spanned the whole nine circles. If rumors were to be believed, his show even broadcast to the human world, where an unsuspecting soul would stumble upon its hellish horrors from time to time.

Most of Alastor’s fans practiced good sense and enjoyed his show from a vicinity of at least five feet. The other ten percent, all of whom Angel privately thought of as insane or suicidal, flocked to the hotel for a chance to worm their way into his good graces or his bed. Roughly half of them became the subjects of future shows, and the other half…well, Angel discovered a newfound appreciation for Niffty and her knack at cleaning blood and gristle off of various surfaces.

The point was, the Radio Demon fell for a very good reason, and thrived in Hell for an even better one.

He supposed: when Hell gives you bodies, might as well make…a radio show?

Angel curled his legs up to his chest. That strange twisting had reappeared.

Even though Alastor’s motives were clear, Angel still felt grateful. It wasn’t difficult to imagine that in another world, another place, and who was he kidding. If Alastor were a different guy, he probably wouldn’t have become the Radio Demon. This Alastor, bloodlust and all, was his. _Theirs._ Regardless, a softer Alastor would be a nice change of pace. The turning point that launched that particular fantasy hinged upon what the demon stated near the end of the broadcast:

_What an entertaining guest we had on tonight’s show! I haven’t had that much fun since [garbled noise]_

_In any case, dear listeners, it is to my greatest chagrin that we will be wrapping up tonight’s show. This last song for the night is dedicated to one of my fellow sinners, someone I have had the absolute delight in getting to know, and more so after all the information we’ve…extracted…from today’s guest! Without further ado…_

_This one goes out to Angel Dust!_

It was so easy after that, to imagine Alastor as a friend.

He buried his face in the crook of his elbow, upper limbs wrapped around the legs rucked up to his chest. He goes and does something like that one night, and Angel just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Angel realized with a lurch that perhaps his relationship with Alastor evolved sufficiently to the point where they could possibly be friends. Now, for real.

He scoffed. Did the Radio Demon even have friends? He supposed Charlie, Husk, and Niffty could be considered at the very least, close associates. Even Vaggie begrudgingly admitted to tolerating his presence at the hotel a solid year after his arrival. He swore he even saw them sniggering together after one of the hotel’s weekly “participation mandatory” dinners, but that could have been a fever dream caused by the drugs he was on at the time. As for Angel, he was reluctant to admit, especially to himself, how close he’d gotten to everyone at the hotel.

He shoved the thought away just as soon as the tremors began, before the subject prompted another excruciating headache.

He furrowed his brow. The silhouette of a migraine hovered, threatening to turn corporeal. The headaches struck so often nowadays. They choked his head like a barbed beartrap. The severity ranged from minor annoyance to blinding pain. He hadn’t yet pinpointed the trigger, but they appeared to manifest when Angel was feeling extremely emotional. He hoped the effects diminished over time, with the rest of his post-acute symptoms.

He already made a living on his back; he didn’t relish the thought that his free time would be more of the same.

Fat Nuggets nudged at his leg, snorting, and he reluctantly stretched out. A porcine nose snuffled into his cupped palm. It brought a smile to his face, and he ran two sets of fingers up and down the pig’s sturdy spine. He stared at his hands tracing through the coarse hairs.

The sensation of Alastor’s gloves materialized at the forefront of his mind. He shivered at the memory of the buttery leather. At the time, it felt intimate. Almost sensual, at least on his end.

Which was beyond ridiculous, he thought. Alastor dodged his attempts at seduction on the best of days, and flung him into the void on the worst ones. He recoiled whenever anyone dared to touch him, forcibly maintaining what everyone now called his “five foot” barrier. If he could hardly imagine the Radio Demon having friends, then surely any boyfriends or girlfriends were out of the picture, right?

Although lately, Alastor was surprising him. He agreed to the da- _night out_ , Angel corrected himself. And the night wasn’t a bust! The conversation flowed, and no one got maimed or killed, which was a real possibility with the guy. He thought it a fair assessment, considering that the last group outing the hotel staff entertained ended up with a ballroom’s worth of demons torn asunder. He ended up throwing away the dress; even Niffty couldn’t lift all the bloodstains and clumpy viscera from the fabric.

He circled back to the speakeasy. Compared to the previous group outings, it was positively benign. And afterwards, Alastor even walked him back! That was unusual, given his penchant for portalling everywhere, but Angel wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not to mention, he agreed to do it again. Either he was diving off the deep end or something else was going on. He seemed to space out at times, which was rather strange for an otherwise fastidious Overlord.

_Was something wrong?_

_Why the Hell did he care, anyway?_

The memory of Alastor’s face in the speakeasy came at once, unbidden. His soft smile dimly lit by the flickering candlelight, and the way it reached his eyes. All at once the thing in his chest juddered and tried to break free. The blood rushed to his face and-

The vice around his head suddenly began tightening. He stopped petting Nuggets. He gripped the sides of his head as the pain spread. His temples pulsed once, and there was a terrible hollowness in his stomach. Angel struggled to grasp what possibly could have brought this on, when the penny finally dropped.

 _Oh shit_ , Angel thought.

_Oh shit._

* * *

Alastor’s fingers flew at record speed on the keys, the tap-clack-punch sounding less a symphony and more like a madly performed overture. The typewriter itself was rather old, but served its basic purpose, unlike those new-fangled computer contraptions that interfered with his frequencies.

He had a vague idea of how he wanted the next show to go, but like always, it banked on his mood and the constitutions of his guest stars and under-willing participants. And Alastor just adored all the preparations required to create each broadcast.

In the late 80s, during an uneasy and ultimately unsuccessful alliance with Vox, both demons discussed how much they simultaneously appreciated and loathed the baggage that came along with broadcasting entertainment for the masses. Vox bemoaned the trend of audience participation (“Caterin’ to fans should be one of the sins that lands your ass down here, I’m tellin’ you”) but Alastor positively delighted in it. A huge question mark flashed on his screen after that admittance, so Alastor confessed that he did take stock of audience reception and often incorporated constructive criticism into notes for future shows.

It made for a wider reaching target, he argued. Vox sniped back, “The targets are a bunch of dick-smelling morons, who’ll consume what we decide to give them, even if it’s a rushed hack job of a last season.”

While that was mostly true, there was an undeniable part of Alastor that thrived best under feedback and appreciation. With his popularity at an all-time high, he was loathed to disappoint his audience. That natural inclination for showmanship was likely the reason he ended up in Hell, years before he was probably due.

> _Mama always said he never knew when to shut his damn mouth. She would say, “Baby, you either goin’ be a priest, or a lawyer, talkin’ like dat all the time” while fixing up the only tie he’d ever owned as a child and teenager before Sunday church._
> 
> _She’d push her hands off her legs, stand up, and give him the once over. Then she would pinch his cheeks, grinning despite his exaggerated recoil. “Showman,” she’d smile. “My little showman.”_

“Shit,” he said, when his finger pressed the wrong key. Alastor immediately started at the slip of his tongue. He stared down at the offending key.

_What?_

He hadn’t sworn since the advent of his fall. In fact, he’d dusted himself right off, took careful note of his new body, glanced at the rest of the sinners, and stated, “Fuck” for what was possibly the last time. He fashioned himself a professional veneer and sauntered onwards to become the Radio Demon. Whether or not he believed he truly belonged in Hell, Alastor was determined to show these classless fools how to sin with style and class. After all, crudeness was just another layer of humanity to shed. He should know. The string of curse words from pleading lips were oh so terribly pathetic; such a feeble and childlike way to show fear.

_As if you were such a saint up there_

He willed himself to keep typing. The disjointed thoughts were colliding at a uneven but frantic pace. He initially dismissed it as his normal beginning of the year melancholy, but it persisted. For once in his death, he was truly stumped.

What he felt, he hadn’t registered since the day he died.

_True fear._

It began as the deceptively calm pull of the tide before a tsunami. It belied the panicked flight of woodland critters miles before a forest fire. It was dreaded anticipation, the free fall in your stomach, after the police officer on the phone asks if you are indeed who you are.

Something was happening.

He paused at the typewriter, his fingers hovering over the keys. There was something that he was missing.

He flipped through a gamut of scenarios in his head. Was he the only one feeling this way? Was he the only being inundated with these unwarranted thoughts?

 _Improbable_

He closed his eyes, recalling what the moth demon said at breakfast. Something to do with illness? That’s right. She asked Charlie if the other girl suffered from any unusual malaise lately. Charlie responded in her own idiosyncratic way, practically frothing with concern. She answered in the negative, and for some reason, Vaggie appeared somewhat put out by it. She begged off any further questions from Charlie, deflecting as she was wont to do when her lover entered one of her moods. Husker chimed in, then, and grumbled that his whole death was a continuous headache, credited to “motherfuckin’ yappy broads” ruining his morning libation. The conversation quickly devolved into threats and base accusations. He excused himself as soon as a plate frisbeed inches away from his monocle-clad eye, but not before picking up on Angel Dust’s whine about lifting the hotel’s ban on drugs due to lingering withdrawal symptoms.

Alastor straightened up at once, yanking the paper from its mechanical confines. The tufts of hair on the sides of his head lifted with the static coursing throughout the room. His eyes began glowing a muted red, and the noise reverberating inside the room resembled that of tuning.

Alastor was never particularly close to Charlie’s partner, but he did enjoy teasing her at every chance. The blatant animosity dwindled in the past year thanks to the cease-fire enacted in reaction to Charlie’s insistence at welcoming Hellborn denizens like Stolas and Belial into the fold. Vaggie asked Alastor to run interference. He agreed, and as a consequence of their success, the truce endured today.

However, baring one’s soul to someone who will gladly run a holy spear through your body just to see the opposite side was a different story and situation altogether. No, no, no. The answer to his problems was clear. There could feasibly be only one person for the job, a single, specific person who would be able to help him deduce these capricious happenings.

Firstly, they needed to have experienced similar maladies. Secondly, it must be someone who didn’t jump to homicide after the first hint of a downturn. Thirdly, it could not be someone who was either continuously drunk or operated under a severe attention deficit. Finally, the last requirement: it must be someone the Radio Demon could tentatively trust.

“Tentatively” being the operative word.

* * *

Angel Dust woke from his near-dead stupor.

His pet pig was noticeably absent from his side, the lack of warmth apparent. Goosebumps pebbled his skin. The fur on the back of his neck bristled. He pulled the sheets closer as an unpleasant cloud settled over him. Angel scrambled in the dark. His heart beat, erratic in staccato as he unleased all his limbs, patting blindly at his sheets. Finally finding purchase in Fat Nugget’s hirsute scruff, he hissed in relief.

But as Angel’s heterochromatic eyes adjusted to the darkness, he clambered on all eight limbs.

“Alastor, what the fuck?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from “Without Your Love” by Billie Holiday
> 
> If anyone reading this is struggling with substance abuse, there’s a hotline, SAMHSA, that you can call at: 1-800-662-4357 or 1-800-487-4889. It’s confidential, free, and accessible 24/7. Withdrawal is not fun, trust me, but addiction sucks harder.
> 
> National abuse hotline’s number is: 1-800-799-7233. Also confidential and free. Trust me again. Many forms of abuse are not physical; it doesn’t mean they’re not valid.


	6. ‘Cause love is the thing (so they say)

Angel slammed the tumbler down with a huff.

He sat down with more force than necessary, glaring at the demon across him. Said demon did not look even the slightest bit contrite. He calmly sipped at his drink like this was a normal occurrence and not at all like breaking, entering, and brandishing Eldritch powers to lurch an unsuspecting demon awake. Of course, it was entirely within the realm of possibility that doing so was routine for the Radio Demon. Just another fucking Tuesday.

He crossed his arms, eyes narrowed.

“Ya know, if I wasn’t already dead, that woulda for sure done me in.”

“How fortunate then, for the both of us! That would rather defeat the purpose.”

Angel bit back a retort. Irritated as he was, it was still the middle of the night and he was trapped in a room with one of Hell’s most powerful overlords. A weak, miniscule part of him wanted to trust Alastor, especially as of late, but this was Hell. He’d been down here long enough to hone at least some decent survival skills. Alastor’s gleaming smile only further solidified his decision. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“So what’s this about, Smiles? I’m guessing ya didn’t come here for some nookie, or else my clothes would still be off.”

He didn’t bother to hide his smirk when Alastor tipped his head back, swallowing the remainder of his whisky in one go. Angel was impressed how he managed to keep the smile on his face, especially when his eye twitched like that.

“Yes, well, I admit that I was not prepared for all that,” he waved his glass up and down the general length of Angel’s body. “I suppose I should have expected as much, all things considered.”

Angel snorted, leaning back. “That would mean thinkin’ about me in your free time and we both know ya ain’t about to do that.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that’s exactly true.”

Angel straightened up, his earlier annoyance at Alastor fading as curiosity bloomed. The animal in his chest leaped, and Angel tried his hardest to stomp it down. Alastor looked deceptively relaxed: bowtie undone, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, legs crossed at the ankles. His casual demeanor reminded Angel of their not-date at the speakeasy, albeit under brighter lightning. Under the subdued incandescence, Angel studied his expression.

The hesitation on Alastor’s face gave Angel pause, but eventually curiosity won out.

“Ya need info, Al?” he ventured, casting a line. “Somethin’ I can help ya with?”

It’s got to be about Val or Vox, he realized. They didn’t exactly get to talking about them last time.

Which was puzzling to Angel when he remembered how exactly he convinced Alastor to go out with him in the first place. He quickly filed away the question for later, deciding to wait for Alastor’s response before he jumped to any conclusions.

“Yes,” he stated, meeting Angel’s stare. “Just so.”

Angel tried in vain to stop himself from fidgeting under that brilliant red gaze, to no avail. Alastor’s smile widened a fraction, almost as if scenting the blood in the water.

“Let’s get to the meat and bones of it, shall we?” Alastor tilted his head as if regarding Angel’s state of being. Angel was certain he could smell the dread emanating from his body. A chill travelled down his spine at the thought of mentioning anything related to the other overlords. Just because he promised Alastor information did not mean Angel wanted to spill his guts.

_Because if they found out, they’d spill his guts all right._

He wasn’t about to welch on his promise; that’s not the type of guy he prided on being. But Angel viscerally knew what happened to stool pigeons when they were discovered, and they were always found out.

He braced himself for the inevitable.

_Here it comes an’ I promised to deliver, oh dio mio-_

“Have you been experiencing headaches?”

_What?_

“What?”

“Headaches! My goodness, should I get my microphone?”

“God fuckin’…No, Al! I just didn’t think…why the Hell…headaches?” Angel stuttered, his voice pitching with each word. He found himself standing, gripping his robe tighter around his body, at once equal parts relieved and confused.

He raised one of his arms, fully intending to berate the Radio Demon when Alastor put a finger to his lips and shushed him.

Angel found himself at a complete loss for words.

The goddamned buck shushed him.

He couldn’t believe it.

While Angel remained suspended in a state of disbelief, Alastor seized his chance.

“I’ve noticed that a fair portion of the sinners residing in the hotel have been suffering from various maladies lately. A wide plethora of prodromes, including headaches. I’m curious if you’ve personally experienced anything of the sort.”

Angel took a deep breath, focusing. He inhaled again for good measure. He finished five deep breaths in a row before he spoke.

“You unbelievable…arghhh!” He shoved two of his hands into his face, willing himself not to lose it in front of yet another overlord. Alastor, for his part, looked picturesquely at ease, and more than a little amused. He raised a brow at Angel’s glare but said nothing, much to his chagrin.

Angel huffed. He stomped over to his mini bar, empty glass clenched in hand, and filled it to the brim. He took a large swig, grimacing at the way the liquor burned its way down his throat. He counted to ten. Hissing under his breath, Angel turned towards Alastor.

“Look, Al, it’s bad enough ya gave me two heart attacks in a fucking row, but now yer tellin’ me it was about freakin’ headaches?”

His grin was answer enough, pissing Angel off more. It was ass o’clock in the morning, Angel figured, and there was a feral deer demon in his bedroom. In any other circumstances, he’d have gladly welcomed it. Unfortunately, this specific situation was decidedly less than ideal.

The goddamn understatement of the century.

A funny sensation slithered inside his chest, then snaked its way into his head. _You’d welcome him regardless,_ it whispered. He shoved the traitorous idea to the back of his mind, where it belonged. He needed to focus on the present question. Knowing the Radio Demon, it could literally mean life or death.

_Or was that death and double death?_

A polite cough jolted him out of his reverie. Alastor’s smile still didn’t reach his eyes, and the increasing static was warning enough. Angel cleared his throat.

“I mean, yeah, I’ve been getting headaches, but I got withdrawals so that’s normal for me.”

“Angel. You haven’t consumed, smoked, or injected anything in months to the best of my knowledge.” The corners of his mouth twitched, as if daring Angel to debate that statement.

Angel retorted, defensive.

“Smiles, I know _you_ , outta all assholes, wouldn’t know this shit, but it’s called post-acute withdrawal symptoms, and they happen way past the crazy stage. It’s yer brain relearning how to fuck itself back to normal.” Despite himself, Angel cracked a grin. “How come ya left out boofin’?”

Alastor refused to take the bait.

“I’m well aware of those symptoms,” Alastor said, valiantly choosing to ignore that last bit. “However, I’m asking you if there has been anything out of the ordinary that you’ve noticed since the last extermination.”

Angel rewound to the beginning of the year. He hadn’t noticed anything deliberately out of the blue, except maybe…

“I’ve been getting these weird dreams lately. Chalked it up ta PAWS, so could be nothing.” He rubbed two of his hands together, feeling unsure all of a sudden.

“What kind of dreams?”

Angel glanced up at the abrupt change in tone. It was devoid of the buzzy din that usually accompanied Alastor’s voice. Instead, the Radio Demon sounded almost…human. Once again, Angel could imagine that the stag-like demon across from him was just a regular person, much like how he himself had been, once upon a time. For a split second, everything was normal.

Minus the darkening of the room and rapid flickering of the lights, of course.

“Nothin’ too crazy, but they sorta, I dunno, seem like memories. Stuff that happened from…”

He hesitated, the crawling under his skin returning.

“From?”

Alastor’s voice sounded soothing, but there was an edge to it that Angel didn’t recognize or like. He took a deep breath.

“From up there. Before.”

Alastor’s brows furrowed and static erupted around them. Angel immediately panicked, assuming he displeased the demon somehow.

“I know it ain’t normal an’ it’s probably just me but it’s been years,” he babbled.

“Exactly,” Alastor interrupted, voice barely audible above the buzzing.

“Years,” he repeated. His smile was a grim, clenched thing. “Which begs the question: why now?”

Angel blinked. Alastor’s claws dug into the arms of the chair, his back ramrod straight. He spoke aloud as if Angel wasn’t present. It clicked into place.

“Wait. Al, you too?”

The volume spiked but Angel could not find it in him to care much. Alastor remained still, smile frozen in place and gaze unfocused. His stomach lurched at the Radio Demon’s demeanor.

Unlike other old-fashioned relics of Hell, Alastor expressed himself vividly. His expressions ranged from mild irritation (usually when Angel’s advances were too forward) to unrestrained glee (observable from his breathless proclamation of a “particularly exhilarating show”; Angel didn’t stick around for the particulars). From time to time, whispers of the Radio Demon’s unleashed fury reached his ears, and although Angel personally hadn’t experienced it, he believed it all the same. Even a blind man could smell death, after all.

A natural showman, Alastor was well versed in keeping his more unfavorable emotions away from his audience. He meticulously maintained every effort required to convince the audience of his act. The rictus smile he wore was a prime example. Oh, Alastor was a changeable bastard on his own terms, but once in a while, the mask cracked, or slipped just a tiny bit, and the fissure revealed a glimpse of the true Alastor.

Angel caught it once.

* * *

A couple of months ago, he was laid up in his dressing room at the studio, doing his makeup to pass the time. All of a sudden, he heard a yell and a door slamming. He jumped, then stilled, instincts shouting at him. Curiosity overruled survival sense, however, so he tiptoed to the door before cracking it open. The sliver revealed a pacing Vox shouting at someone unseen, his normal buzzing and humming interspersed with lengthy beeps.

“You can’t keep fucking asking me for this, asshole! If Val finds out, fuck, if Velvet finds out, I’m getting spit roasted, and not the good kind!”

An audible thump punctuated Vox’s monologue. A zipping noise followed, and with it, the coppery metallic stink of blood. He recoiled at the scent, but staggered back at the familiar timbre of the answering voice. And the rising sound of static.

“Come now, my costive colleague! Turnabout is fair play, after all!” The voice grew sinister, deeper. “We made a deal.”

“That’s not how that…” Vox emitted a screeching noise, then a series of beeps. A long pause followed, Angel’s staccato heartbeat the only noise thudding in his ears.

“Fine,” Vox eventually ground out. In retaliation, a soft song began playing in the background.

Vox let out a low hiss, and turned towards the demon ( _Alastor, it was Alastor, always Alastor),_ their profiles now in stark view. Alastor conjured a chair and primly sat down in front of the television demon. Vox remained standing, hands clenched at his sides.

Alastor perched at the edge of the chair, then leaned forward, singularly entranced. His overly enthusiastic smile dropped. A gentler, less rigid version graced his face. Angel watched as the Radio Demon removed his monocle and cleaned it with a handkerchief before returning it to his eye. Whatever transmitted on Vox’s screen beguiled Alastor enough, insomuch that the veneer, in its process of melting, began to slide off his face.

Vox took no notice of it. He was as omnipotent and omnipresent as the rest of the sinners residing in Hell. Which was to say: none whatsoever. At this time, he was merely a tool, projecting the images off his screen. While doing so, he was unable to observe any of the demon’s reactions.

Alastor must have known this, which was why he allowed his mask to slip.

There was another possibility as to why, but Angel dismissed the thought as ridiculous. The Radio Demon was untouchable. However vindictively whole his mortal soul was in life, it further deteriorated with every vile deed performed down here. Demons lost much of their humanity within a few years; an ounce of empathy was suicidal, while avarice ensured survival.

Alastor fell close to a hundred years ago. His overlord status all but guaranteed he possessed little to nothing left of his mortal soul.

_(And yet)_

At his angle, Angel couldn’t see any of the scenes flashing on Vox’s screen. He tried to listen to the audio snippets, but all he caught were strange notes to an unfamiliar song. It was then that Angel witnessed the remaining sliver of Alastor’s soul.

The sudden slackness in his face stole years off of it. It was if every facial muscle, taut with tension, were finally snipped at the fibrous muscle, the strings recoiling back into a broken marionette. A childlike sense of wonder reflected in his eyes, a half smile tugging at his lips.

The change to his eyes was the most damning. They possessed a weariness that Angel had never seen in the Radio Demon, but was altogether too common in Husk and Vaggie. Even from afar, Angel noted the absence of the radio dials. There, framed by thick lashes, were a pair of eyes so remarkably human that it elicited a stuttering pang from his chest.

From that moment on, Angel knew exactly what must become of the souls in sinners. Every layer sloughed away, strip by strip, making room for carnivorous and avaricious intent. The meat pried open, discarded, with only the bones, _the pit_ , remaining. The last splinter clutching feebly on, existing solely as the remaining tether binding a sinner to humanity.

Of course, it existed as just a shade, a mere afterthought in this playground for sinners. But it was enough, Angel thought, to linger as a kernel of guilt, enough to plant seeds of doubt in those thorny minds. Enough for sinners to question themselves from time to time. Remorse was practically unheard of in Hell, but doubt ran rampant. It was Hell, after all. What was Hell without a little torment?

The torment never seemed more apparent than the nakedness of Alastor’s face in that strange, unsettling moment. Almost as quickly as it came, the shard vanished as the video ended, swallowed up by the disguise.

The mask rearranged itself once again.

Alastor swiftly stood up, dusting at his lap. He swung out a hand as his microphone materialized into existence. Vox’s crackly voice cut through the music. Angel could sense his irritation from where he stood.

“Satisfied, Bambi?” he huffed. “I don’t get you at all, man. Always the same fuckin’ thing…”

“Nothing for you to _get_ , my pugnacious palooka!” Alastor’s grin grew wide, and very sharp. “I’ll leave the remains here?”

Vox waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Finish the rest of your end of the deal, and we’ll call it a wrap.”

“Marvelous,” Alastor exclaimed, and moved to leave.

Before he left Angel’s frame of vision, however, he paused. Angel’s heart pounded as the Radio Demon’s head snapped towards his hiding place. His pupils were radio dials again, glowing with the color of fresh blood. The sound of a record being scratched repeatedly resonated through the studio. Angel could barely make out Vox’s alarmed “What the fuck” over the thudding in his ears. He instinctively stepped back, tremors skittering down his spine. His head whipped around in a frantic effort to secure an escape route.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ he screamed inwardly. _He knows. He fucking knows I’m here. This is it, this is how I go-_

A loud screech of feedback blasted from the microphone. Angel flinched, the last of his lower limbs shooting outward in a defensive maneuver. He staggered slightly, waiting for the inevitable. He breathed in: _one, two, three, four, five, six_. He exhaled: _one, two, three, four, five, six…_

Nothing happened.

As suddenly as it started, the noises died down, and Alastor’s neck swiveled back to its original position. Adjusting his coat, he began to hum as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred.

Understandably, Vox seemed unconvinced.

“What the fuck? What the fuck was that, Alastor?” he demanded, screen flicking from his main face to his rainbow-striped screen. Alastor turned his head slightly, but did not slow his stride.

“My mistake! I thought I spotted something flitting about,” he called over his shoulder. He swung the main door open with a twirl of his microphone. He paused. Angel heard the telltale scrape of claws in wood.

“I suppose one should eventually adapt to the presence of vermin within this general vicinity. It does seem to be a particular niche of yours.”

Vox sputtered out an expletive-laden retort, but Angel knew the Radio Demon was long gone.

He wouldn’t risk his afterlife without securing a hasty exit: in his case, Alastor preferred portalling as a means of travel. On the other hand, Vox also wasn’t fool enough to chase after Alastor alone, much less attack him while under the thrall of a Devil’s bargain.

No, Angel realized, Vox and Alastor both held self-preservation in high regard. Alliances in Hell were tenuous at best, and many Overlords used that to their advantage.

Still, he wondered. What was on that screen that was so important to Alastor? What could possibly be worth the risk?

Angel kept those thoughts to himself as he performed his last shoot, Val and Velvet having returned a few hours after the incident. He shot a practiced, disinterested glance at the overlords as Vox presented a bloodied sack to Val, who zipped it open, face lighting up at the contents.

He kept the thoughts to himself as he slunk back to the hotel. He waited for a confrontation from Alastor.

He waited for the eventual consequence.

But Alastor made no mention of it.

It took two awkward communal dinners, an impromptu hallway game of hide-and-seek, and a run-in (run-out) at the hotel bar to convince Angel that he wasn’t going to retaliate any time soon.

And if the Radio Demon played a peculiar assortment of songs on his broadcasts from the 1980s for the next couple of weeks, then Angel was sure as shit not going to dwell on it. He refused to comment when confused guests questioned the dramatic change in music at the hotel’s weekly listening party. Angel may have been many things, but he was no stoolie. In any case, Angel resolved to forget whatever he may have witnessed; it would be prudent in the long run, he decided. He liked to think that he possessed at least a lick of common sense in regards to survival.

* * *

Now, at this very moment, Angel found himself oddly bereft of sense. He drank in Alastor’s unsettled expression, from the unfocused gaze to a guarded sneer. The mask was set firmly in place, as always, yet this time, Angel could differentiate the edge from the normal swathe of skin. His eyes travelled down to his undone collar, lingering at the expanse of skin and the apex of a scar. Alastor remained stock still.

Resolutely silent.

Angel, all traces of sense having taken leave, asked again.

“Al,” he began, unable to keep his voice from wavering. “You been havin’ dreams too?”

The unnerving parts about Hell weren’t necessarily rampant murder, torture, and the like. Those were practically commonplace after the initial orientation. The true disquiet was reserved for the absence of behaviors once considered normal, at least during their tenure as mortals. After the immediate impact of the Fall, each sinner transformed in distinctive ways. Their body warped into the “true embodiment of their soul”, bastardizing the immortal flesh into a monstrous thing. Souls peeled. The innards of humanity were slowly expelled out in time, until only a hollowed husk remained. Every sinner lost the most redeemable aspects of their soul in one way or another. Conscience dissipated and compassion vanished. Even acts as mundane as crying ceased to exist among the upper echelons of demon society.

And to his knowledge, Overlords did not dream any longer.

Angel grew increasingly aware of the extended silence. He shifted his weight back and forth. For his part, Alastor did nothing to disabuse the other demon of the tic; he seemed content to let Angel flounder in discomfort. The clock ticked with each moment, becoming progressively louder as the time dragged on. A significant beat passed until Alastor finally spoke.

“I didn’t…” he started, amplified voice hitching on the words. “I haven’t experienced dreams in a long time.”

The words were carefully spoken, as if handpicked in advance. His lips moved molasses-slow, but he maintained eye contact as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

Angel supposed it would be. Perhaps he himself would have been fooled, along with everyone else, years ago.

Angel knew better now.

Now, he knew something of radio dedications and drunk smiles. Cedarwood and pepper notes and piano keys. Meandering walks home.

A demon like Alastor should have obliterated everything remotely human long ago.

Perhaps he did. Which meant-

“How the fuck is that possible?” He flinched at the rising pitch of his own voice, trying in vain to lower the spike in his blood pressure.

“And why the fuck now?” he asked, reiterating Alastor’s earlier concern. He barely registered his robe slipping down his shoulder as he began using his hands to convey his disbelief and ascending panic. The Radio Demon glanced down at his newly exposed chest, smile tightening fractionally, but did not comment.

“What’s happening to us?”

The last question came out as a whimper. Angel locked eyes with Alastor who, for all his cocksure bravado and feigned calmness, radiated unease. He lowered long lashes, obscuring his gaze. Angel was this side of hysterical when he heard:

“Nothin’ good, cher. Nothin’ good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the song, "Love is the Thing, So They Say" performed by Ella Fitzgerald
> 
> “Boofing” is a way of ingesting drugs by inserting it into the rectum through the anus and letting it absorb that way. The alcoholic version is also known as “butt-chugging.”
> 
> PAWS: Post-acute withdrawal syndrome
> 
> Stoolie/stool pigeon: Slang for a police informer, snitch, rat


	7. Good morning heartache (what's new)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of colorism in the beginning.
> 
> Happy Passover

“What do ya remember from before?”

Alastor turned his head towards the sound from his position on the floor. The bloody rays that constituted Hell’s daylight pierced through the spaces in the blinds. Heat seeped in and under cracks, prepping the hotel inhabitants for another sweltering morning. It was nothing out of the ordinary; sinners eventually became accustomed to the weather, or it drove them mad. Those with more power withstood the stifling heat better than lesser demon spawn. All in all, the first rays made for a seemingly innocuous, ordinary morning.

Except for the fact that Alastor’s supine body lay, arms outstretched, on the smooth floor of Angel’s room, looking for all intents and purposes like someone attempting a snow angel only to give up halfway.

His skin was aflame. It burned something fierce, and pinpricks of sweat beaded on his forehead.

He’d opened up the top buttons on his shirt earlier, Angel and propriety be damned, and kicked off his shoes in order to feel some measure of relief. He supposed this was what sunburns must have felt like, although he only remembered his skin burning lightly once or twice, since he tanned faster than the sun could keep up.

Mama used to get so mad when he would go outside, especially when Mimi Elena and Papa Henri came to visit; she would smack him gently upside the head and tell him to go put on long sleeves and trousers if he was gonna go outside in the daytime because, _Baby you can get so dark-_

“Look Al, if ya gonna keep spacin’ out so much, I might as well just leave.”

Angel’s irritated whine sliced through his reverie. The crimson faded, and his eyes slowly regained focus as he blinked away the blurriness. Angel Dust sat upright across from him, back slumped against the seat of the couch, elbows propping his upper body up in a slipshod manner, and legs akimbo on the floor. His robe was completely untied, revealing a copious amount of bare skin. Alastor picked a deity at random and thanked them for the tiny amount of cloth covering the demon’s genital area.

Blinking away the last vestiges of red, he noticed a flush spread across the exposed skin. He was positive that Angel wasn’t always that pink-colored, but then again, he never bothered to properly look. Thankfully, Angel’s inability to keep quiet answered that mystery for him.

“I swear, Smiles, I’ll leave my own goddamn room and jump, buck ass naked, into the fuckin’ aquarium downstairs.” He whined, shoving his stockinged heels at the ground. “Who do I gotta blow to get some AC up in here?”

“Whoever it is, let me know,” Alastor grumbled, his smile sliding slightly in the oppressive heat.

Angel lit up at once, cackling. “Desperate times, huh, sweets? Didn’t peg ya for such a slut, but I’ve been fooled before.”

A sharp retort was at the tip of his tongue when Angel shifted his gaze towards Alastor. The grin dropped from his face.

“Holy shit. Al, you ok? Ya sweatin’ like a whore in church.”

He didn’t deign to answer the obviously rhetorical question. Instead, he rolled his eyes, petulantly hoping the demon would see that at least. Angel’s responsive huff was music to Alastor’s ears.

“Wow. Fuck me for carin’, then. Fine, whatever, man.”

A brief silence ensued. The ticking of the wall clock chimed increasingly louder as the seconds passed by. It was soon drowned out by other noises. A tone-deaf cacophony filtered past the double doors leading to the balcony. Screeching of tires pierced the would-be silence in the room, and a reactionary cry of “Wanker!” blared in response from far away.

It would have continued this way, silence punctuated by bits of background nuisance, were Alastor a lucky man, and Angel a less obnoxious one.

Alas.

“Hey Mistah Radio Demon, I gotta question for you. What’s up with all those scars?”

Alastor took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Scars?”

“Look, buddy, I’m dumb, not blind. Where’d ya get all of those things?”

He peered down at his attire, cringing inwardly as he realized his dress shirt had ridden up, exposing part of his abdomen. The markings were worst along that area. Second place went to his back, and third, his chest. He’d arrived in Hell with the marks on his forehead and ribcage, for all he knew. Not like he’d happened across a mirror in the mad scramble out of the pit, anyway.

But Alastor was certain that the scars littering his skin appeared after his descent into Hell, due to the searing pains that wracked his body after the systemic mutilations performed on his radio show. In fact, the only scars besides the bullet wounds and blasted dog bites that he was sure he didn’t acquire in Hell were that furling crater indented in his right shoulder, and the starburst edges smeared across his left knee.

Just thinking about the scars triggered a bolt of phantom pain. He was careful not to let it show on his face.

He was always very careful about that.

> _“Al! Fuckin’ run, they right up our ass!”_
> 
> _He pants, zigzagging in between the alleyways, scuffing his shoes on the cobbled streets. His feet follow a familiar pattern, thank God, because his brain shut down at Dauphine. His breath comes fast and heavy, a dull thudding in his ears. The burn on his shoulder sears fire with every piston movement in his arms, but the blind panic settling into his mind distracts him enough. He dimly registers Danny’s gradual slowing down, and he slams a fist blindly at whatever part of his friend he could reach._
> 
> _“Fuckin’ hurry up!” he shouts, connecting his fist with Danny’s bony wrist. He winces but neither one of them slow. He focuses on the road and the familiar scenery whipping into view._
> 
> _The dumber animal part of his brain is running on all fours, but the smarter part, that no doubt will become louder later, is whispering in the back._
> 
> _He deserved it, it murmurs. You know he did, deep down inside. Boy’s gonna be crippled for life, the way you bludgeoned in his head like that. Shame you didn’t get to the other two._
> 
> _At least, not yet._
> 
> _He ignores that part in favor of rounding a corner, but he knows that once he gets to where he’s going, everything’s going to be just fine._
> 
> _Once they hit Basin, once they get to Storyville…_
> 
> _They’re home free._

A loud slapping noise rang in his ear, jostling him back to the floor. White noise hummed around him as he gathered his bearings, before he finally shut off the racket with a flick of his fingers. Angel glared at him, palm splayed out on the hardwood floor.

“Al. I know it’s hot as well, Hell, here, but I ain’t kiddin’ when I say that you’re spacin’ out.” He retracted his hand, cursing under his breath.

Even from his vantage point, Alastor noted it looked splotched and red, making him wonder how long Angel was trying to get his attention. The room’s temperature soared, the once cool floor becoming more oppressive as mid-morning arrived. Aggressive movement didn’t seem to be doing anyone any favors. He felt a stab of sympathy twinge in his chest, and recoiled inwardly.

_What._

“My question is. Well, technically I got two.” He held up two fingers obnoxiously in Alastor’s line of view.

“One. Why is it so fucking hot? I mean, who the fuck turned up the thermostat? This is Hell, yeah we get it, but why the fuck now? This some kinda global warming shit?”

He turned to Alastor as if he had all the answers, so all Alastor did was snort.

“We’re not on the globe, dear,” he replied, the endearment rolling off his tongue, sarcastic and saccharine sweet. “We’re in a different dimension.”

Angel bared his fangs. The gold tooth glinted in the light, and Alastor toyed with the idea of how satisfying it would feel if he plucked it out of his mouth.

“Fuck you, it’s a turn of phrase.” Alastor opened his mouth to argue the incorrect usage of the idiom, when Angel trudged on, “Two. What the shit is going on with you, Smiles? It’s the second time this morning! Hell, ya been out of it this whole year!”

Alastor didn’t answer right away. His nails scuffed the floor as he dragged them up and down. Buzzing noises, mimicking the sounds of radio tuning, became louder. He barely stopped his pupils from changing again as he immersed Angel’s room in red and static. Angel warily watched the display as a glow began to surround his body. The static reached a frightening crescendo before it abruptly ceased. The glow disappeared, along with the tuning noises. Alastor’s hands stilled, his claws trapped in the deep furrows created by the scratching.

“It has to do with the headaches. I’m certain.” His voice lacked the normal projection of his radio personality. That display drained him, but he had to be certain.

“Hold on, what the fuck was that all about? And what now?”

“Angel,” he started, then hesitated. He positively loathed this part of the story.

To be forced to admit any weaknesses to mere acquaintances paled in comparison to asking another Overlord for assistance, but it still irritated him all the same. After all, the handful of times when he’d formed an admittedly uneasy détente with Vox were necessary, even if both parties were reluctant to agree. Overlords were tricksters: vile, powerful, and rotting things that fed on lesser bacteria in this floating cesspool. But those he could deal with. Those, Alastor innately understood. Gaining power, losing power, maintaining power. Every one of those louses clawed their way to that chaotic pinnacle, respecting its precariousness but trudging forward anyway. Alastor knew the feeling. It was always about the climb. In his experience, most overlords were made, not born, but all were cut from the same cloth: down to the textile, pattern, and size.

Sinners came in all shapes and sizes, to be sure, but in general, most Overlords had three major things in common: less than ideal childhoods, intimate exposure to a traumatic incident or two, and banishment from society for retaliating in a reasonable manner, given the circumstances.

Of course, that approach gained no sympathy from the outside world. Very few people tended to sympathize with the motives behind the actions, at least when the people you killed were the wrong class, gender, or color. But what every silver tongued preacher failed to recognize was that every individual coped in different ways. Maybe little Elodie down the street finally forgave her uncle when she joined the church. And maybe the quiet boy always sitting at the back of the pews lost his mind with rage (but before that, unparalleled pain) when he saw those boys walking scot free because _Abel’s dad is cousins with Judge Landry, and him and Elias are cousins on Elias’s mama’s nephew’s cousin’s side-_

[Radio feedback]

Society shunned them for daring to fight back. They paraded his crimes, condemning him to fire and brimstone during Sunday’s public forum of morons. They gossiped about the reasons leading up to those heinous acts in the privacy of their water-tight, fire-resistant homes. They compared his situation unfavorably to everything they could pull out of their high and mighty asses, just so they could all sleep better at night.

Even when alive, Alastor could understand the sentiment behind it.

Easier to count survivors instead of the dead.

And the dead sat, waiting in the shadows, until they fell, one by one. Valentino was one of the first, and the most adaptable of them. “World’s oldest profession” and all that jazz. Alastor estimated that he fell sometime around the age of the Roman Empire, but he wasn’t sure of the exact date. Rosie and Franklin followed in time, the aftermath of an unspecified revolution. Alastor himself fell in 1933, after World War I and during the Great Depression. Vox appeared decades later, and Velvet, much more recently. All of the overlords, save Alastor, meticulously acclimatized to current times, each desiring to maintain their reign of power. They scrambled over each other, clamoring for a piece of the future. He recalled once, Rosie had asked Alastor why he didn’t care to adapt to modern technology. It was a boon in regards to territory expansion.

Alastor answered, guarded but honestly. It was dear Rosie, after all. He told her simply:

“When radio dies out, I die out. It makes no difference to me, my dear. I’ve been alive and dead for more than a century.

Darling, I’m [record skip] exhausted.” [laugh track]

Even still, Alastor remained off-balance when it came to his demon allies. Niffty was the first of them. She fell sometime in the late 1940s to 1960s. Alastor quite literally ran into her at an organ marketplace, of all things. He still has her teeth marks embedded in his bicep.

Husker, on the other hand, refused to even acknowledge the year he fell. He was one of Alastor’s few acquaintances that lived to a ripe old age; many demons that survive the yearly exterminations tend to have bitten the bullet far earlier. The common saying, “I’m here for a good time, not a long time” was a popular declaration during his mortal existence; knowing humans, he surmised the idea outlasted his death.

It still bothered him at how much he had to rely on the both of them when the wars started. It took him years to understand why Niffty was sentenced to Hell, when her crime was the most innocuous one he’d heard of. Husker’s reason was thankfully more cut and dry, but Alastor still found himself wary until he eventually came around to the fact that, although more caustic than a bucket of lye, the cat demon was generally, albeit begrudgingly, loyal to people that earned his respect. The raging alcoholism was an added bonus.

Relying on one too many allies usually backfired in the end, however. Alastor, brutally aware of this fact, kept a small circle of them close to him, and rarely ventured outside of it. This was Hell, after all. Overlords, he keenly understood. Regular sinners…not so much.

They tended to be erratic, on the whole. Most of them were incapable of compartmentalization, and thus retained a dearth of human traits and emotions. Lack of control and sentimental flights of fancy made them easy to eradicate, but difficult to trust.

He wouldn’t exactly label Angel a wildcard, but he’d seen other overlords make such mistakes before. A part of Alastor, _the wiser part_ , he thought bitterly, raged against telling the spider demon anything about his condition.

The larger part, however:

“I also find myself the unwilling recipient of…dreams. And I’ve also been experiencing, if you will, flashbacks. From various points in my life.” He paused and clarified, “My human life.”

At the corner of his eye, he could see Angel’s hands lift, a telltale sign he would begin talking, and added, “Voices. I’m also hearing voices.”

Angel said nothing in response. Alastor expected as much.

He’d come to the conclusion that Angel knew a fair amount about overlords and their ability to disassociate with any traces of humanity. He was starting to realize that Angel, while moronic on copious amounts of drugs, appeared to be much more clever than he previously observed. Not exactly overlord material, of course. Angel was far too sensitive and prone to sentiment. He risked a fair amount working under Valentino and behaving the way that he did. However, it took a decent bit of moxie for him to approach Alastor under the guise of gratitude, much less propose an outing. He also seemed less afraid, and shockingly more relaxed in Alastor’s company nowadays. Which was absolutely suicidal in Alastor’s mind. _Sentiment._ Those idiotic ideals always got you killed. Such frivolous things proved ineffectual in Hell.

But even Alastor had to acknowledge that whatever contrary skills Angel employed, it ultimately kept him relatively safe, if not alive. He supposed the tendency to find solace and companionship in others were hard habits to break. The drive for acceptance was firmly entrenched in the dregs of Angel’s soul.

Without it, well, he wouldn’t be Angel Dust.

_And that just won’t do_

“Tell me about them.”

Alastor startled then, scraping his nails deeper into the divots. He snapped his head towards Angel, who leveled an even look at him.

“Tell me, Al. It can’t hurt. If anything, maybe we can figure this shit out. Something fucking weird is goin’ on, an’ you know it.” He opened his hands, revealing his palms again, placating. “Let me help.”

“I’ll show ya mine if ya show me yours,” Angel joked, forcing a halfhearted laugh.

For a moment, Alastor just stared at him. A million thoughts raced around his head. Something else, far deeper down, shifted for the first time in nearly a century. His chest tightened. He was unfamiliar with the sensation.

“I…” he began, valiantly. His sight moved past Angel, fixating on nothing in particular. He’d existed for a hundred and twenty years so far, been a radio show host for ninety seven, and for some apparent reason, this felt brand new. It was unnerving how Angel managed to slip under his skin so swiftly. After countless other demons failed.

_Well. In for a penny-_

“It started in January. It always starts then. This year, it didn’t subside.”

_In for a pound._

It’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title lyrics are from “Good Morning Heartache” by Billie Holiday
> 
> Dauphine and Basin are streets in New Orleans. If anyone is interested, there are a few maps of New Orleans from the late 19th and early 20th century floating around the internet.
> 
> Storyville existed from 1897 to 1917 as the designated and regulated red light district of New Orleans.


	8. Blue moon (now I'm no longer alone)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description of a panic attack

Alastor did have a lovely voice.

Without the emphasis and uptick on certain words that defined his radio show accent, his voice had a sonorous quality. It reminded Angel of those silver tongued radio hosts, the ones that he and Molly listened to, the ones crooning silky promises in the dead of night on stations no one ever admitted to listening to in the morning. His voice dipped sensually low at parts of the narration, not enough for Angel to lose focus, but enough for him to experience the warm stirrings of arousal.

He shifted carefully, hoping Alastor was too busy speaking to pay attention, to no such avail.

“Something wrong, Angel?”

“Nope,” he gritted out through teeth. “Hunky fuckin’ dory. Keep goin’.”

The slight narrowing of his eyes betrayed his smile but Alastor continued, likely understanding the importance of picking his battles.

“As I was saying, the dreams and flashbacks are inconvenient, yes, but the voices are entirely infuriating.” He ground his nails back into the hardwood floor, deepening the crevices further. Angel winced.

Asshole, he thought, looking forlornly at the marring. He didn’t know the first thing about fixing floors. He doubted Niffty would be able to repair that.

“Imagine being in the middle of a decent recipe, and then having it all come undone because of some idiotic distraction in your head. Such a travesty!”

Angel resisted rolling his eyes, but just barely.

“No offense, buddy, but that don’t sound like the end of the world. If ya ask me, it’s par for the course for us sinners to hear voices down here. Not like anyone wants to remember, but a lot of us are pretty fucked in the head.” He absorbed Alastor’s glare with ease. “Present company excluded, sure, but it makes for a decent excuse in court.”

Alastor scoffed, turning his head away. “It may be fine and dandy for someone of your caliber to be of unsound mind, but it is rather uncommon for me.”

An unsaid “not like other demons” spiel hung in the air, but Angel ignored it for the time being. He’d circle back to it later.

“Lemme get this straight then: you were cookin’ food when ya heard the voice, blanked out for a couple a’ minutes or whatever, and your shit burned? This was a big deal to you?” He scratched his head. Since Alastor was facing away from him, he infused his voice with skepticism instead.

“Ya sure you was just cookin’?”

“Fine,” Alastor snapped, prompting Angel to startle.

Alastor never became this hostile, so quickly. Especially as of late. Vox, Valentino, and Stolas were outliers in regards to Alastor’s wrath, as far as he knew. He chalked it up to the incessant heat, but still felt a little wary.

“I may have been involved in a routine exsanguination of sorts. Nothing out of the ordinary, just your typical ritual slaughter! Anyway, what does that distinction have to do with anything?”

“I dunno. You can start with tellin’ me what it was sayin’. Maybe that’ll help.”

He paused, triggering Angel’s internal bullshit alarms. After a moment, he continued, still facing away from Angel, claws tapping on the ground.

“It asked me what the purpose of this was. When I was performing the initial cut, it kept repeating, ‘Why, why, why’ like a damned broken record. As my hand stilled, it asked…”

Angel knew better than to force anything out of Alastor. He waited, careful not to stir lest he derail the explanation. Many had difficulties with speaking their truth. At the end of the day, Alastor was still just-

_Stop_

“How did we become this?”

“What? I…Al, I dunno about you, but I’m pretty sure I’m here because I-”

“Angel. To clarify, that’s the question it asked me.”

“Oh.”

Then, a thought occurred to Angel.

“Hey, so what does this voice sound like? In your head?”

Alastor didn’t reply at once. Angel wondered if he overstepped some unspoken boundary; if he didn’t recognize the voice or worse, if he knew exactly who the voice belonged to.

“Most of the time, it’s mine.”

“Most?” Angel pressed. It felt a little like tickling a sleeping dragon, what with Alastor’s hackles risen once already.

“Sometimes it’s…” he petered off. His chest rose and fell twice in succession. “Someone I used to know.”

_Right. Like that wasn’t ambiguous as all Hell._

“Okay. Like a friend? Relative?”

_Lover?_

Angel was still unable to view his expression since Alastor insisted on facing away from him, but the delivery of his answer brooked no argument.

“Just someone I knew. I don’t wish to elaborate.” The glacial bite to his tone shocked Angel. It unsettled him, much more so than the garbled mess that was usually accompanied by radio dial pupils and static. This was livewire: taut, electric, and overloaded with ache.

Angel wouldn’t press the matter, at least in this instance, but every fiber of what remained of his soul burned with curiosity. He shoved that matter to the side, penning a mental note to explore it later.

“Got it. Okay, just so we’re clear, this rando voice is whisperin’ shit in your ear, _not_ when you’re doing innocent shit, but when you’re committing Alastor-level crime.”

He chuckled, recalling a kid’s movie from his time.

“Sounds like Jiminy Cricket.”

He practically felt the exasperation laden in the other demon’s sigh.

“Is this another reference that I won’t understand?” came the tired question from the floor.

“Most likely. When did ya die, again?”

“Thirty three.”

“Yeesh. Yeah, I doubt you’d know it. Anyway, long story short, it’s based offa Pinocchio, which was way different from the original book by the way, and there’s a talking cricket named Jiminy Cricket. He’s supposed to be his conscience.”

“My dear, if I ever really possessed one, I rid myself of that a long time ago.”

“Yeah, I guess you would’ve.” His voice sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.

More so, the near oppressive warmth was immensely distracting. Angel toyed with the idea of undoing his robe entirely, but this moment was too high a cost. The only option left was removing his stockings.

Which.

Fucking the Radio Demon was a likelier event.

He did manage to roll them down, however, so the fabric bunched right under his knees instead of stretching over the thickest part of his thighs. He stared down at his covered feet, wiggling and flexing his toes. He hunched over, fixated on the pull of threads, the translucency in the worn patches. A white hot flare of shame lit up inside him.

As a boy, he’d hoped fervently that when he went to Heaven, God would fix everything wrong about him. He would finally be the person he envisioned when he closed his eyes at night. Angel’s mother told him that God already made him perfect. He prayed all the same.

His lips formed into a rueful smile. He didn’t know what he expected, anyway.

“You should take those off if you’re uncomfortable.” Alastor’s quiet, carefully spoken suggestion lifted Angel out of his reverie. The Radio Demon’s face was visible again, his smile small and subdued now. As usual, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m fine,” Angel hissed. “It ain’t that hot.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes, it is, Angel,” he retorted. “It is that hot because something is wrong with us, and we’re supposedly in the process of figuring that out.”

“I said, it’s fine.”

“It’s clearly not. So help me Angel, if you remove the rest of your robe before those other garments-”

“You’ll do what? Besides, ya can’t fuckin’ talk! All your clothes are still on!”

“My gloves are off.”

“Gloves? My almost everything is off!”

“You’re covered in fur.”

“And you’re covered in scars,” Angel spat, petulantly. He crossed his middle arms over his torso, pointedly turning his head away. Which allowed him to hear rather than personally witness, the exhausted sigh from behind.

“Angel,” he said. “It’s come to my attention that you hold no particular affinity for your feet.”

At that, Angel swung back around and opened his mouth to fire back, so Alastor quickly continued, “But I assure you, there’s nothing inherently wrong with them. I’m sure they look perfectly fine.”

Angel exploded.

“Fine? Wow, that’s rich, comin’ from a guy that looks pretty much normal, aside from the antlers and teeth and shit! Meanwhile, I look like a fuckin’ furry muppet with goddamn elephant feet!”

Angel’s vision blurred. He blinked rapidly to stem the onset, but tears welled up all the same. He partially blamed the suffocating heat, partially Alastor, but reserved the majority of the blame for himself. The self-loathing was suffocating, but Angel had adapted.

It was only now that he was relearning how to choke.

A movement to the side of his head forced him to focus. Alastor slowly stood up, apparently mindful of the increased warmth that followed movement, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Angel Dust was a mob member, seasoned porn star, occasional stripper, sometime whore, druggie in remission, and occasional advice columnist. Not much surprised him anymore. He’d seen things and done more things. Were he to write a tell-all book, it would likely surpass the length of the Bible, and result in a suspicious suicide. He lived and died a prolific sinner and as such, experienced the lion’s share of whatever life and death offered.

Nothing could surprise him.

Was what he incorrectly assumed before Alastor did just that.

Angel Dust, witnessing the Radio Demon stripping off his shirt, was momentarily struck dumb.

Alastor was in the process of undoing the fifth button before Angel’s sanity returned with a vengeance. Careful not to jostle the remaining bit of robe off his lap, he hissed from his slouched position, “What the fuck are ya doin’?”

“What does it look like?”

“Did the heat scramble your goddamn brains?” His voice pitched as his eyes roved over the newly exposed, scarred skin.

Alastor’s torso was littered in pale, raised scars. They ran the gamut of sizes and shapes from pinpricks to gashes, crescent moons to lightning bolts. A particularly nasty laceration bordered by irregular edges, graced his left ribcage. Two suspiciously spherical ones rested under his right upper clavicle and lower pectoral area, respectively. The scars ran down his arms, stopping at the obsidian fade of Alastor’s forearms. It was like the guy had gotten into it with a wood chipper and lost.

And fuck, he already knew this, but Alastor was thin. Not that it stopped him from wanting to climb that pole like a seasoned stripper. _Broad shoulders,_ his mind unhelpfully supplied. He also noted some apparent muscle definition while raking his gaze from top down.

_Hang on. Was that-_

“Is that a tattoo?” he blurted out, clearly in control of himself.

Alastor, to his credit, only marginally rolled his eyes and shrugged.

“Maybe.”

The idea of the prudish Radio Demon with a tattoo proved to be too enticing for Angel. He clasped the material of the robe with two of his hands to maintain adequate coverage, then moved from his sitting position to a kneeling one, bracing on his haunches.

“Lemme see it,” he whined. To his genuine surprise, Alastor complied.

He twisted his torso so that his audience could have a better view. There, nestled in the meat of his bicep, was the thick outline of a crudely drawn skull with its jaw unhinged. And in its open mouth: three strange symbols resembling the ones that appeared beside Alastor during his erratic displays of power.

Angel’s hands itched to touch it. He wanted to run his fingers over it, to feel the roughened texture beneath the scars and that tattoo. He ached to feel them, as if the scars and ink would transfer onto his own skin.

“Not the cleanest work, I’m afraid. It had just gone out of vogue in the early twentieth century, but we persisted, like the little delinquents we were.”

“We?” Angel watched as Alastor froze, pausing at the slip. At once, an inauthentic laugh track assaulted his eardrums.

“Just a couple of acquaintances from the neighborhood! A merry little band of misfits!”

As usual, there was an unsaid “and nothing more” floating around the statement, but Angel ignored it, at least for now. He gave a wan smile but said nothing as he sat back into a more comfortable position. Just because he was good on his knees, didn’t mean that he relished being in the position for longer than he needed to. He winced with relief as the weight shifted. Fuck sports, he thought. This was what kneepads were truly made for.

“Okay. Not that I’m complaining, Smiles, but what’s with the striptease? I ain’t got cash, so you’re outta luck if ya wanna pay for nursing school.”

The strong exhale brought a grin to Angel’s face. It was short-lived.

“Look, Angel. This exercise was, in no way at all, easy for me. I especially loathe,” he stopped abruptly, cheek twitching. He flicked his eyes to Angel’s and began again.

“While I’m not overly fond of my appearance, I’ve accepted it as part of my penitence. I don’t flaunt it, but I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

He sighed.

“To the best of my knowledge, this is what we’re left with. There’s no magic here that can change us now.” He unceremoniously dropped to a sitting position, cracking his neck on the way down. “Do what you wish. Just know you’re in good company.”

The words washed over Angel like light rain. Not unpleasantly cold, but a cool relief in a place that eternally burned. It didn’t exactly quench the fire, but it helped, all the same. The invisible hands choking his heart gave another squeeze, and he stared down at his legs.

Gingerly, he placed his fingers on the bunched fabric under his right knee. He dipped his thumbs under the stocking, hooking it. He gripped the silk, knuckles white, and pulled it down. It snagged at his ankle. His vision blurred and he forced himself to breathe.

_In and out._

He inwardly braced, pretending Alastor wasn’t in the room. It was a fruitless attempt; Angel felt eyes boring into him anyway. His teeth clenched, heart palpitating irregularly, the cold cloak of dread settling over him. His hands trembled.

_In, out._

_In_

His fingers tightened their grip, and he shut his eyes.

_Out_

He yanked the stocking off.

He opened his eyes.

And there it was, the bane of his continued existence. He tilted his head.

_Huh._

Now that it was out in the open, it didn’t quite appear as bad as he’d imagined. Maybe he was remembering wrong.

It certainly didn’t live up to his expectations. He’d had hardly looked at his feet for the past twenty years, preferring to focus on the bathroom wall or the shower curtains when washing them. He usually wore either leather boots, high heels, or stockings during shoots. When he used to walk the track, he charged extra for foot play and averted his eyes during it, but that stopped sometime after the seventies when he joined Valentino’s studio.

They were misshapen and set with large, blunted nails. The appearance did resemble elephantine trotters somewhat, but he’d seen worse over the years.

Maybe Alastor had a point.

He wiggled his toes experimentally, watching them slip past each other.

He would be lying outright if he said that he felt at ease with their appearance, especially after all these years. Shades of repulsion and shame lingered in the corners of his mind, but it wasn’t as all-consuming as before.

It wasn’t quite acceptance either. He supposed it might never be, but begrudging acquiescence was better than nothing.

A well-timed cough dragged him out of thought.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it, dear?”

Right. His feet. He glanced down again at his monstrous appendages, shuffling through an entire deck’s worth of feelings.

“Not as hard as I thought it would be,” came his admission. Angel looked back at Alastor, who was staring intently at them. His stomach dropped.

He hurriedly scanned his face for any signs of disgust, revulsion, anything of that nature. For some reason, Alastor’s reaction meant everything. His breath hitched as Alastor flicked his gaze back to Angel’s face.

And merely shrugged.

Alastor, doing his absolute best at being a pain in the ass, stated matter-of-factly:

“Well. What an abject disappointment. I was expecting something more hideously Lovecraftian. That just all looks rather unremarkable.”

A wave of relief enveloped him. It pulled him out to sea and he floated. He couldn’t help it; he laughed.

“Fuck off,” he said, with no real heat.

Alastor’s grin broadened, and then he barked out a laugh. A true blue, honest to Satan, laugh.

It was nice.

“For once, I’m not being facetious.”

Angel sighed. “Just say it, Al. They look weird as shit.”

“Your feet are par for the course down here, dear. They’re not that normal to be sure, but they’re hardly unseemly.”

“Hardly unseemly? Your monocle need polishin’? They’re like elephant feet!”

“Angel. I’m not sure if you’re aware but as it stands, you are a spider demon covered in pink fur, and I have antlers.”

“And a tail.”

“The _point_ is, Angel Dust, we’re all in the same boat. Best buck up and be done with it.” Alastor’s smile widened at his own joke. Angel snorted.

“You’re shit,” he said, shucking off his other stocking. He barely registered the disquieting sensations similar to the unveiling of its twin. It was easier somehow, this time.

“At comforting people,” he clarified.

Alastor chuckled. “So I’ve been told.”

“Sure, sure.” He wiggled his toes, marveling at the near immediate relief.

“So was this just you dyin’ for an excuse to take off your shirt?” Angel teased.

“An ulterior motive sounds much more fitting, doesn’t it?”

“Sounds like bullshit, to me.”

They drifted into a comfortable silence despite the heat. The intermittent scraping of nails on the wooden floor soothed Angel in a strange lulling way. It seemed to calm Alastor as well; the gouging appeared to distract him from the wayward thoughts polluting his mind.

Angel had no such luck. He kept circling back to what Alastor told him. About all the things happening to him. Angel’s headaches still hadn’t abated. And they were burning up on the floor of his hotel room. As demons. In Hell.

There was something more to this madness. Something that kept niggling at the back of his mind. It reminded him of when he was a child and convinced a ghost was following him. It was always present, dancing on the edges of his vision, but when peered at directly, scattered into thin air.

It was frustrating, just trying to line up pieces when an integral part was missing. Angel wanted to solve this, he did. Not just for himself, but also for the man sitting an arm span away. A surge of hope bubbled up from within, but he stamped it down with a vengeance.

_Stop it. Focus._

Angel recounted back to what Alastor said, earlier that morning.

_Voices. The dreams._

_His memories._

He was maddeningly vague for someone that needed help, Angel thought. But the situation itself was unorthodox, so he supposed he could give him that.

Alastor never willingly asked for assistance in matters that counted. He wondered if that meant something. If so, Angel could sympathize, even as someone who ran in the opposite direction. Angel tended to rely on the kindness of strangers more often than not, and never really learned his lesson when it came to love.

An unbidden memory brought forth a rain of mixed emotions, the loudest one being despair. The last person Angel confided in betrayed his trust completely.

His fingers trembled in his lap.

_Slut, Tannin sneered, moments after accusing Angel of sleeping with Husk._

_Little painted whore, he spat, derisive. You fall so fucking easily._

_You really think anyone’s got room to love someone like you?_

Angel pinched his eyes shut, futilely willing away the words. He knew they were already stained inside him. He choked back a sob and a wave of loathing. It was always so exhausting, digging up old memories.

Perhaps he could sympathize with Alastor more than he thought.

The blurry edges at his peripherals smudged even further. His vision tunneled. Short, sharp breaths rattled out of his lungs. His heart punched against his ribcage like dying throes. His hands shook, fingers twitching uncontrollably. It was the only thing he could focus on, possibly the last thing before his mind blanked and yielded to panic.

“Angel.”

He distantly recognized the voice.

“Angel.”

It registered enough to pull him away from the dark, and he slowly forced himself to breathe.

_In, out._

“Angel.”

_In. Out._

With every breath, Angel marched towards the direction of the voice, away from the self-erected labyrinth of his mind.

Eventually, the dark edges of his vision receded, and his heart rate tamed. His fingers quivered, still a marked improvement from moments ago. Slightly short of breath, Angel inclined his head towards source of the voice, wholly unprepared for what happened next.

Alastor extended his arm, reaching out a hand.

Angel froze, unsure of how to react. He stared unblinkingly at the outstretched palm on the floor in front of him. The fingers twitched, but remained unfurled. A tight smile adorned the Radio Demon’s face. He looked mildly surprised at his own conduct, but held his peace.

Angel paused for a beat.

Two.

He reached out and bridged the gap.

Alastor’s hand was a furnace. His calloused palm caught twice on Angel’s softer one, before hooking his fingers under their counterpart. Alastor anchored his thumb on a knuckle, a warm weight that held him down and prevented him from flying away.

Heart snug halfway up his throat, he squeezed. Alastor answered with one of his own. It was brief, a fleeting moment, but it was enough.

The hotel’s inhabitants were set to rouse in the next hour or so. Angel met Alastor’s gaze as the demon slowly unclasped and withdrew his hand. Recognition flashed, bright and burning, before it shuttered behind red smoke. The sudden absence left him feeling bereft; of what, Angel couldn’t pinpoint exactly.

For a while, they sat in relatively companionable, if a bit awkward, silence.

Angel never wanted anything more than to sit there forever, heat be damned. Or at least until the light moved completely across the room, fading into the beginning of night.

Instead, he said, “Al, I ain’t sure what the fuck is going on, but this is bigger than us. I wanna help ya, I do, you got _no_ idea how much I do, but I dunno know where to fuckin’ begin. I can’t even help-”

He choked on the near admission. Taking a deep breath, he tried again, “I think we need to ask everyone if they’ve been feelin’ off, too. Maybe they can help. Worth a shot, dontcha think?”

Angel predicted the sigh before it barreled into existence.

“Have you ever heard of the idiom, ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth’ or the saying, ‘One boy, one brain, two boys, half a brain, and three, no brain at all’? As much as I’d like to hold my fellow compatriots in high regard, _that_ remains a pipe dream.”

Angel laughed, despite himself. “Fuck you, Al. Why ya always gotta be so difficult?”

“It’s in my very nature, dear. Nothing succeeded in eliminating that particular habit, I’m afraid.” Sighing, he reluctantly admitted, “Though I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try.”

Chest uncommonly light, Angel grinned.

Alastor returned it.

It reached his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the song, Blue Moon, performed by many artists over the years. I’m partial to the Billie Holiday version, as usual.
> 
> Walking the track(s) is the term for where a prostitute works and picks up customers. It’s a strip, or “track” of area they occupy (like a policeman’s “beat”) and the area is usually designated by their pimps.
> 
> Jools's notes, for sake of transparency: I'm planning on uploading a chapter every two weeks or thereabouts, since I've almost caught up with them. I feel a bit more comfortable with having buffer chapters so as not to leave you all hanging when I do get writer's block or something. I am dead set on finishing this story (right, right, famous last words) so I want to make sure I can set a reasonable timeline to do so. Also, the last chapter (not this one) I finished ends on a cliffhanger. According to my notes, my story is outlined to end at twenty or so chapters, give or take a few.
> 
> Thanks again for reading


	9. Oh why (can't you behave)

“The fuck is this about, again?”

Husk tipped his head back to better facilitate the transfer of alcohol into his mouth. The-he squinted at the label- _white rum_ tasted little better than toilet cleaner, but he figured shit swill was better than none. He threw another withering glare around the room for good measure, spying with his all-too-sober eyes: a jittery demonic princess, her pissy girlfriend, the cycloptic energizer bunny, an exhausted nymphomaniac, and an always grinning, seemingly omnipresent, pain in the brown fucking starfish. To top it all off, it wasn’t even yet noon, a fact that the pissy girlfriend emphasized with a shriek.

“Fuck you, it’s five o’clock somewhere,” he retorted, pulling another swig from the bottle.

“You’re fucking impossible. Babe, we’d save so much money if we threw him out right now. He won’t get redeemed anyway. For fuck’s sake, look at him!”

“Now Vaggie, let’s not jump to-”

“Aw, piss off, three-beer queer.”

“The fuck did you call me? Writing’s on the wall, asshole!”

“I ain’t here outta my own free will, girlie. It’s that asshole,” he jerked his head towards Alastor, “ya should be thanking. Believe you me, if I could walk my happy ass outta those doors, I’d pull out faster than your dad with child support.”

“Haha! Why, he just went out to purchase cigarettes! He’ll be back someday, just you wait!”

Husk anticipated Alastor’s interruption, but was caught off guard as the joke sunk in. It may have been a facetious jape to derail the ongoing argument, but for the first time during his involuntary servitude, he was confronted with the idea that the Radio Demon quite possibly had a father at some point in time. He wasn’t sure why it struck him as odd; Alastor talked about his mother a fair bit, often going off on long tangents during his cooking and cleaning sprees.

Husk could envision that, at least. Everyone had a mother, even those shits at the Chicago-Chicago casino just off Baphomet Boulevard. Even Charlie, born here in Hell, had a smoking hot mom. It was one of those facts of life that Husk never bothered to question. Eve may have been fashioned out of Adam’s rib, but not for nothing. “Good for the goose, good for the gander”, his furry ass. Looked to Husk like Eve was worth her salt, pushing all those crotch demons out of her cunt, while Adam sat his happy ass down after having done his minor part, before shoving his thumb up his ass.

It struck him that in all those years, he’d never really imagined Alastor as someone with a defined past, a human past, to boot. Alastor’d always been the Radio Demon- _his fucking boss_ -in all capacities, and to be frank, he found himself too dumbstruck with fear to harbor any illusions about the guy.

 _Who was he, really?_ The thought burned brightly in his mind. His stomach twisted.

_How much do we actually know?_

The train of thought would have persisted if not for the throbbing headache looming on the horizon. To counteract it, he swigged another generous serving of rum. Fairly quickly, the thoughts and threat of imminent pain dwindled to a low rumbling.

 _Fuck it._ He’d remember later.

“Fuck off, Al. Didn’t ask ya for your goddamn two cents,” he griped. He swung his half-empty bottle, addressing the room, “So what the fuck are you all wasting my time for, again?”

“Miss Angel Dust’s got a problem he needed to talk to us about,” Niffty chirped. “She said it had to do with symptoms or something.” Her voice dropped as she stage whispered, “It’s hard to understand when he’s slurring.”

The guy in question feebly lifted a middle finger. “You try ‘splainin’ shit when you’re half awake, lady. I ain’t had time to sleep, just ask this asshole.”

He thumbed in the general direction of Alastor, and Husk’s eyebrows shot up so quickly, they almost skydived off his face. He opened his mouth farther, a challenge given that his jaw had already acquainted itself with the floor, and gave a lackluster attempt at speaking before Vaggie cut viciously in.

“I’m sorry,” she began, sounding anything but. “Did you just say that you slept with Alastor? Is this what this meeting’s all about? Your goddamn sex life?”

The vein near the girl’s temple pulsed, so Husk took another pull of rum to satisfy his personal alcoholic bingo.

“Dear, if I even deigned to entertain such a violation upon my person, it would most likely not include any of Angel Dust’s frankly ridiculous illicit fantasies. No, this gathering is unfortunately inspired by decidedly less prosaic concerns.”

Charlie spoke up. “Concerns, as in…”

“Fuckin’ Hell…raise your hand if ya been havin’ headaches or other weird shit,” Angel interjected, lifting his hand.

_Oh fuck._

Niffty’s hand shot up immediately. Husk peered around the room, counting the current show of hands. _Two_. Charlie bit her lip, appearing to do the same. He zeroed in on Vaggie, who curled in on herself, brows furrowed together. She let out a sigh. Charlie’s eyes widened as her girlfriend slowly raised her hand. Resisting the urge, Husk instead grit out an expletive, then hiked up his own paw.

_Four._

Only Alastor and Charlie hadn’t raised their hands. He narrowed his eyes, pinning his ears back. He was prepared to unleash a tirade on Alastor when the Radio Demon met his glare, and lifted up a hand. His face betrayed nothing. On instinct, Husk zeroed in, carefully searching for any clues, any cracks that gave away his game. He spotted beads of sweat lining Alastor’s face and neck. He wore the same three piece suit as usual, only this time, discomfort poured off him in waves. Husk could sense it, all the way across the room. In all the hullaballoo, no one else seemed to notice.

“Not headaches, mind, but the latter. I won’t elucidate, but it is certainly…distracting enough.”

“Enough to call a meeting ‘bout it,” Angel added.

Charlie whipped her head around, eyes wide. “All of you? Since when?” She turned to Vaggie. “Why didn’t you say anything? What’s going on?”

Vaggie rested a hand on her arm, rubbing in slow, concentric motions. “Babe, I didn’t want to scare you, plus, I thought it might be a coincidence, like that one time we ordered Chinese from that place in the Fourth Circle, and took turns in the bathroom the entire night.”

“That ain’t no coincidence, and that shit’s on both-a you, sweets. Any broad orderin’ takeout from anywhere but the Third Circle deserves what’s comin’. Or in your cases, goin'."

“Oh fuck off, Angel! The whole circle was quarantined that night! What the fuck were we supposed to eat?”

“There’s always nonperishables in the larder. Perhaps next time, start there?”

“Goddamit, Al, no one wants to eat the nonperishables. That’s why they’re fucking called that.”

“Hey! I eat them! Mister Husk, you should really give it a try. That liquid diet you’re on isn’t doing you any favors-sorry that’s kind of rude-but it might get rid of those stomach problems you keep talking about!”

“I ain’t got no problems, shortstack. Mind your damn business.”

“Guys! Come on, focus! We need to get to the matter at hand,” Charlie pleaded. “What’s going on with all of you? Why didn’t anyone say anything?”

“Beats me, Princess. Thought it was Dust-related,” Angel said. Lolling his head backwards, he pointed to Vaggie. “Bet she thought it was business as usual. PMS, am I right?”

Alastor chuckled. “I was under the impression it lasted roughly only a week, and not every waking moment.”

“Laugh it up, dicks.” She flipped them off separately. Vaggie then faced her girlfriend, frowning.

“I don’t think any of us knew the extent of it. Hell, it’s not something you bring up in normal conversation. ‘Hey, Angel, how’s your day, oh by the way, I’ve been getting these migraines lately, oh no shit, you too?’ I mean, that’s unrealistic, and you know it.”

Charlie let out a weak laugh. “I guess so. But what _is_ going on, then? And for how long?”

“It usually begins in January,” Alastor said, in a dulcet tone. He clutched his microphone stand, knuckles protruding. “For me, at least. It dissipates near the end of the month.”

Husk concurred. “Al always gets in a funk at the beginning of the year. It dies down by the time February rolls around. But right now we’re four months in, and he’s still fucked up. That’s sayin’ something.”

“Look, Al, I know you’re a private person, but could you elaborate on what this ‘funk’ entails?” Charlie put up her hands, waving them placatingly. “Not trying to pry, just wanting to, well, understand.”

Alastor remained silent. He blanched at the question and gripped his microphone tighter.

Angel, apparently now hypervigilant of the asshole, butted in, “He’s just goin’ through some shit, Princess. Weird feelings, that kinda stuff. ‘Sall in the same vein as our problems, anyway.”

“Oh-kay. But this is all affecting only you guys? No one else at the hotel?”

Husk’s phone buzzed. He yanked it out with the hand that wasn’t clutching the bottle.

_Goddamn claws._

**Fish sticks: Where is everyone?**

**Meeting.**

**Fish sticks: Why was I not invited?**

**Idk, you got any headaches or sm shit.**

**Fish sticks: What. No.**

**Fish sticks: Is that what you’re having a meeting about? Are you all ill?**

**Fish sticks: Don’t spread it to me.**

**Fish sticks: Do I need to quarantine myself**

Husk swiped back to the home screen, thumbing the button at the side of his phone. He shut it off.

“Looks like it’s just us. Baxter ain’t got shit,” he sighed. “Ain’t a stretch to guess that the rest of the hotel fuckers don’t have shit either. Maybe Sushi’s right. Maybe it’s just a cold, or a hellish version of the flu. It can’t be more ‘en that.”

The static rose at the mention of the flu. Husk anticipated it, given that Alastor’s mother, from what Husk cobbled together from bits and pieces of incessant monologue, presumably passed from it. To his credit, the Radio Demon willed it under control, the static lasting only a couple of seconds, tops. He rolled his eyes at Alastor’s flamboyance, tipping the lip of the bottle to his own.

_Fuck it._

* * *

“Hon, come to think of it, I think I mentioned it earlier this year. We just didn’t seem to get far, seeing as Husk and I got into a shouting match,” Vaggie said, glaring at the drunk. He responded accordingly.

Charlie felt sick to her stomach.

She drummed her fingers on her thighs, a nervous habit she picked up from, out of all people, Alastor. Vaggie continued rubbing her arm, a warm balm that centered her. Comprehending, she grabbed Charlie’s other hand and faced her.

“Maybe it’s something going around. And we all caught it from each other,” she said, voice soothing. She laced her fingers through Charlie’s.

“It’ll be fine, I’m sure of it.”

“While I admire your positivity, I’m afraid these manifestations may have begun relatively innocuously, but, and I think we can all admit, this has spiraled out of control.”

Vaggie sighed as Charlie’s eyes jumped to Alastor. She couldn’t conceal the hitch in her voice as she spoke.

“What do you mean?”

“This is terribly beyond the pale, dear. The headaches, from what little I’ve gathered from Angel, are steadily increasing in occurrence and intensity. My own ailments increased exponentially.”

“And you still won’t tell us what they are,” Vaggie flatly responded. “How can we even try to grasp the seriousness of the situation when you won’t even describe it?”

“I’d rather not disclose it at this time. More importantly, why _is_ Charlie the only one unaffected?”

“’Swhat I was thinkin’ as well.”

Her eyes swiveled between Alastor’s and Angel’s. Husk and Niffty leaned forward with curious countenances. Vaggie remained a pillar, tightening the grip on her hand.

Charlie pursed her lips as she considered something.

“Maybe I can’t get them because of my birthright?” she ventured. “Assuming it’s a demon-wide affliction, that’s a possibility.”

Alastor hummed. “That is plausible. However. I fail to see how that explains the stark contrast to my symptoms in comparison to everyone else’s.”

“Mister Alastor, could it also be possible that it’s related to your status as an Overlord?”

Everyone turned to goggle at Niffty.

“That was…surprisingly astute,” Alastor said, stiltedly from slight shock. Husk, having also recovered by inhaling more rum, chimed in.

“Kid’s got a solid point, boss.” He cleared his throat. “Ya also been here longer than any of us; could be another reason. Y’ also…”

Husk trailed off. He let it hang, unsaid, in the air.

“Quite.”

The others shifted almost imperceptibly at Alastor’s deceptively neutral tone. They’ve all had years to acclimate to each other’s habits, Charlie thought, so it was no wonder they sensed the danger behind the disguise. Herself, she didn’t exactly understand.

Hell was all she’d ever known, and she certainly didn’t anticipate her life as the offspring of two demon monarchs. Insofar as she was concerned, she’d never explicitly asked for it. Throughout her adolescence, she often wondered what life would have been like as a human. Her mind devoured the texts in her mother’s library. She spent ages flipping through the pages full of historical accounts and biblical anecdotes, aching to find out more about these sinners, her future subjects. It was only after meeting Vaggie and opening the hotel, did she truly begin her education.

Vaggie explained that not all sinners were reformed equally. Overlords tended to be the most diabolical type, lauded by Hellborn demons for their uncountably wicked acts performed as mortals. In contrast, the bottom of the barrel consisted of those with a murder or two under their belts, other heinous acts scattered here and there. Everyone else filled the spaces in between.

Right at the moment, the implication hovering in everyone’s mind was what differentiated Alastor from the rest of them. It had mostly to do with the crimes he committed that gifted him whatever necessary power needed to become an overlord.

Charlie was not a hundred percent certain as to what brought him to that place, but the others entertained their own overactive imaginations. She herself, although prone to flights of fancy, did not bother with speculation. Call it naïve, but the part of her that believed in redemption for all of her friends, Overlords included, dominated her whole being. She held fast to the saying from one of her subject’s plays: “The only difference is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.”

They’re almost there, she reckoned fondly. They just didn’t know how close they were.

She snapped her fingers, drawing the attention back.

“Regardless! Guys, let’s try not to jump to any conclusions. Maybe we need to take a step back from this. You know, look at it with a fresh perspective! We could be missing something fundamentally important, that we wouldn’t know unless we see the bigger picture.”

“Ah, the good old hedgehog approach. Splendid. What’s the suggested course of action in the meantime?”

“W-well, Al, I’m thinking we should…” she stumbled. It sounded stupid, even to her ears. “Wait it out?”

Alastor leveled an incredulous stare at her flustered face. “Wait it out.”

Undeterred despite the circumstances, her hands tugged the ends of her hair, fingers fluttering absently.

“I think we should definitely entertain-”

“We don’t have a choice! We’re unsure enough as it is! Whatever the hell this fucking sickness could be. The prudent thing is to see how it plays out. Otherwise, we’re going at this completely blind.”

Charlie quirked a smile at Vaggie, who returned it. She found her voice again, hoping it radiated some measure of confidence.

“We need to take an objective step back. Fingers crossed, it’s all psychological! With luck, whatever it is will improve in the meantime.”

Her smile widened as she addressed her audience.

“I mean, what else could go wrong?”

* * *

Angel sped up, yet again suspended in a state of disbelief that Alastor could apparently outpace him on shorter legs. He vaguely noted the exceedingly familiar patterns on the walls, but shrugged it off almost immediately. The asshole probably used his magic, as usual. He’d be more surprised if they didn’t end up in some sort of labyrinthian maze at this point. Par for the course, he supposed.

_Christ on a cracker, what a drama queen._

“Damnit, Al! Hold the fuck up.”

Alastor, to his credit, slowed fractionally. Angel continued, full steam.

“Dontcha think this might be all in our heads? Maybe that’s just how Hell gets, after a while. Ain’t the first time this place’d been shit.”

He almost knocked headfirst into Alastor at the rate the demon spun on his heel.

He snarled, “How could you possibly believe that trite? Are you daft? To believe that something of that caliber could be just an aftereffect of-”

“Woah, easy, tiger. If ya would’ve gone into detail about yer shit, then maybe Charlie would’ve come to a different conclusion. I understand ya might be too proud or somethin’-”

“This has nothing to do with pride.”

“Doesn’t it?” Angel masked his expression with his palm. He sighed. “Boss, ya heard it straight from the Princess’s mouth. She got nothin’. No headaches, voices, nada! How can you even explain the fuckin’ discrepancies at this point? Tell me, how’s that different than a wrench?”

“That fails to explain anything,” he hissed, static rising with his hackles. “Charlie’s the only one of us who was never…”

He stopped.

Angel could see the gears turning in his head. They seemed to snag at a certain point, mimicking a record scratch stuttering in ten second intervals. Alastor noticeably glitched with the sound. He looked like he was on the verge of a revelation, but couldn’t find a path off the cusp.

With growing courage, Angel reached out a hand.

Instantly, the glitching and noises ceased. Alastor eyed the hand, warily.

At the last second, Angel reverted back to himself and snatched it back before it could make contact. His cheeks heated up, an involuntary reaction that was becoming irritatingly commonplace.

Then, Angel scowled.

“Why so secretive, Smiles?” He kicked his foot out, eyes flitting to Alastor. “I mean, it’s just the gang, ya coulda told ‘em what’s been going on with you. Ain’t like they goin’ ta snitch.”

Alastor sighed. “It’s not that. I know they won’t, it’s just…” He trailed off.

Angel then noted the slump of his otherwise stiff shoulders, and the way his eyes darted about, unwilling to make contact with Angel’s.

To Alastor’s open dismay, Angel caught on with surprising quickness.

“Holy shit, Al, I can’t believe…Christ in Hell…unbe-fuckin-lieveable…” He laughed, clutching at his sides. Alastor grit his teeth, smile strained.

“Get on with it, Angel Dust.”

“Ya…ya actually don’t want ‘em to _worry_! Holy shit, Al, not that I woulda guessed this inna million years, but you’re a damn _sap_ , ain’tcha?

“Angel-”

“Under alla that, and who woulda thunk!”

“Angel, if you’d kindly refrain,” he hissed, the crackle of static palpable.

He held up two sets of hands. “Fine, fine. Sheesh, babe, I was just makin’ an observation.” He faced Alastor, poking at his lapels. The fabric felt too-warm even through his gloves.

“Your observations usually lack any merit,” Alastor answered, lacking heat.

“Aw. Give me more credit than that, babes.”

“No more than what you deserve, fiend.”

Lightheaded and unreasonably giddy, Angel smiled. Alastor quirked his lips up in return.

This is nice, he thought, for want of a better word.

Angel basked in that sunglow feeling until the spell inevitably broke.

“Hey, friends. Family dinner tonight?”

Charlie popped her head out from an opened door. Angel took a gander at the surroundings, confirming his earlier suspicions.

_Ah. Back to where they started._

Fucking magic, he thought, more than a little envious.

They sported matching grins as they answered almost in unison.

“Of course.”

“Sure thing.”

As they parted ways to their respective quarters, Angel shrugged off the frisson of unease tickling the back of his mind.

It’ll be fine, he reassured himself.

_Everything will be fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.
> 
> The chapter title is a lyric from the song, “Why Can’t You Behave” which was apparently in the the musical, Kiss Me Kate, but was also covered by other artists, like Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. 
> 
> The “subject” that Charlie is referencing is Oscar Wilde. The quote is from one of his plays, A Woman of No Importance.
> 
> The Greek poet, Archilochus once said, “The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing.” The idea was explored by author and philosopher Isaiah Berlin in his essay aptly titled, “The Hedgehog and the Fox”.


	10. I would rather (I would rather go blind)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blood and gore, panic attack, self-mutilation

_Something was wrong._

Alastor fixated on the draped canopy above his bed. Earlier he had perched on the edge of his couch, claws picking at the fabric in a frantic rhythm. Nausea still bubbled within, so he stood up and began pacing again until the rapid pounding of his heart threatened to knock his legs out from under him. When it became incessantly unbearable, he ripped off his coat and shirt, expecting some measure of relief, to no avail. He laid down on his bed, inhaling deeply through his nostrils, exhaling through his mouth.

_Something was very wrong._

The abnormal melancholy that he experienced at the beginning of the year, after the annual exterminations, typically faded in the coming weeks. This time, the symptoms persisted and stubbornly remained for months. To make matters worse, they were getting stronger. Alarmingly visceral.

He cursed the rest of the hotel inhabitants for their lack of foresight and subsequent inaction.

The excruciation was blinding.

He was never the type to partake much in illicit drug use, even in Hell, but he wondered if this torture paralleled withdrawal symptoms. There were too many undercurrents of emotions running through him, a million live wires pierced and threaded under his skin. It was comparable to the intersection of radio waves, of radio frequencies forcibly tuned in to different directions at once.

The last time he felt this horrid was when he was…

Chills trickled down his spine and he shot up. His heart pumped in an irregular tempo that he swore he felt on every surface of his skin.

It was as if a part of him that had been slumbering for a long, long, time

_Nearly a century, dear_

Began stirring.

And started to rouse.

Alastor hugged his naked torso and began scratching. His claws gouged into his sides, tearing into the greyish skin with fervor. Tissue and blood accumulated under his nails as they shred deeper into fleshy layers. The stink of iron and raw meat assaulted his nose, but it did nothing to distract him from the screaming stinging of his self-induced evisceration.

The pain was excruciating, but it was at least familiar. The other sensations were foreign, and Alastor xenophobically needed them expelled. By force.

He felt the ominous tingling at his crown. The barely audible ripping noise would’ve likely been ignored in the rancorous horror show, but all his senses were alight.

His head grew heavier with the skeletal boughs of his antlers growing, branching outwards like gnarled, twisting roots. A frantic clicking echoed in the room as though one was going through various radio frequencies. A reddish fog seeped between the cracks of the door and misted amongst the furniture. In his mind’s eye he saw the symbols, the loa, flashing like ambulatory car lights in a pattern he was too far gone to recognize.

 _If I can get to t’ bone, it could be ‘nough to sleep_ , he thought, driving his claws further in, fingering the soft wet pulse of viscera under rough pads.

_I need it t’ go back t’ sleep._

His eyelids began to droop, likely due to shock from the mutilation and the loss of blood. With a squelching noise, he pulled his claws free. The static increased in pitch exponentially. He fell backward onto the soaked comforter, back soaked and warm with blood. His sides screamed in pain. This was nothing compared to when he first fell, but it racked every nerve in his body nevertheless.

His eyes finally closed, dampness clinging to his lashes. He waited for the incoming white noise that indicated he was falling unconscious when the switching of frequencies halted abruptly and a voice crept through the static.

 _“And what a wonderful performance from those guys and gals at the [incomprehensible] theatre!_

_Congratulations and continue to break legs!_

_Before we continue with our next segment, dear listeners, let’s take a break with some swell tunes! On this special show tonight, we’ll go through the dedications list that you, my wonderful audience, sent to yours truly, down here at the [intelligible] station!_

_Now, this song was chosen by [static] for his loving wife, [white noise], a loving ditty from their wedding two years prior!_

_And so, without further ado, this one’s dedicated to [static]”_

The radio suddenly shut off. A deafening silence settled over the room. Alastor, on the precipice of passing out, felt an overwhelming sense of dread enveloping his body.

_That was not his show, that has not been his show since he was-_

The radio switched back on.

* * *

Angel bolted up, fur matted, sheets drenched. A cold tingle sluiced down his spine.

_Something was wrong._

Blinding pain pierced him from temple to temple. He retched, waking Fat Nuggets in the process. As if sensing his distress, the pig shuffled towards his owner. The corresponding blast of pain caused Angel to shove his pet pig away at arm’s length. Fat Nuggets squealed at the rough treatment and waddled to a safe distance.

“Sorry, baby,” he babbled incoherently. “Mommy’s dealin’ with some shit.” He squeezed his eyes shut at the vice-like grip.

He breathed in, counting forwards to ten, then back again to one. It lasted several minutes until he gathered himself together, enough to heave himself forward.

After holding out a hand to keep Nuggets in place, he dragged himself to the direction of Alastor’s room. His fingers scraped against the wallpaper as they assisted him in staying upright while his legs fought from buckling. The hallway stretched on endlessly. He forged forwards, determined.

Goddamnit, he thought, bitterly but not without remorse.

_Al was right._

* * *

Angel gagged at the stench.

He’d never been in Alastor’s room before, but the layout appeared similar to his.

He staggered into the room, pain spreading in between his temples. The metallic fetor of blood permeated into his nasal passages, and he recoiled. He stretched out the hands of his middle limbs as he cautiously crept through the pitch dark.

“Al,” he whispered. “Al, where the fuck are ya?”

He tripped over a protrusion in the rug. He cursed as he regained his balance, and slowly kept creeping forward.

“Al, you okay?”

Ice gripped his innards as he spoke. His fur rose on end. The sinking feeling had been apparent when he’d first opened the door to that horrid waft. The smell reminded Angel of a slaughterhouse he’d been taken to as a young boy. His father had planned the excursion to serve as a teaching experience for his heir. The floor was awash with blood. He remembered sloughing through the tackiness only to be greeted with seven spinning corpses. The smell was unrivaled in its abhorrent glory. It was more than a nosebleed, less than a battlefield.

It smelled of loss.

Rot.

He retched then but was damned if he did it now.

He had to find Alastor.

He had to know he was okay.

His eyes gradually adjusted to the blackness, which was not easy because for some reason, Alastor’s room was darker than most. Whether that detail was credited to the shadows or his void powers, Angel couldn’t say. What he was adamant about was that he reached Alastor’s bed, judging by the way his shin connected with a solid, blocky mass. He extended his hands and was met with fluffy down.

“Lucifer, Al. Why do ya always make it so damn hard?”

Out of the corner of his eye, something moved. Angel jumped, whipping his head around. He squinted, not seeing anything at first until it glided towards him. He sighed in relief.

Alastor’s shadow.

It wrapped around him, and Angel shivered at the chill. It whistled in his ear, pulling him towards the bed. He raised an eyebrow but followed its lead. As he clambered onto the mattress, it gave him a rather forceful shove. He swore.

“I don’t need your help, asshole! Outta all people, I know how to get on top of a bed.”

It whistled again, nudging him forward.

“I’m movin’, I’m movin’. Sheesh, ain’t anyone ever tell ya not to whistle at night? That’s bad luck,” he chided, moving steadily forward on his hands and knees.

_Damn, but Al’s bed was huge._

He fought down another lecherous, invasive thought. He needed to focus. Alastor needed him.

The buzzing in his brain jolted to a stop as his hands came away from the sheets, wet. The scent emitted stronger here. _Blood_.

 _Pints of it._

“Jesus Christ, Al,” he whispered as his blood pressure peaked. He extended his lowest limbs, now scrambling on all eight. His hands collided with a warm mass. Angel’s hand hovered over it, trembling. When he finally made contact with the hot skin, it spasmed. He jerked his hand back, now sticky.

The sheets were muddied with blood.

A long, drawn-out growl rumbled from the body. It was splintered in pain, and Angel knew at once that something was fucked up. The shadow whistled lowly.

“Al. It’s me, Angel Dust.”

“Ang-g-g-e-l **[screech]** D-u-u-u-u-st?”

His voice was contorted with static. It was bastardized beyond comprehension, and Angel’s stomach plummeted.

“Al, you’re hurt. You gotta-”

_“He-hello? Is this thing on? Testing, testing!_

_Oh, splendid! Here we go!_

_Listeners, we interrupt this program to bring you [garble]_

_Where did we leave off? Ah, yes._

_Once upon a time, there lived two little boys. boys. boys. boys. boys. boys. boys. boys. boys. boys._

_in, in, in, in, in-_

**_Don’t you even think about it, Al._ **

**_You ain’t never going to win, not against them._ **

**_You have a beautiful voice, Alastor._ **

**_You know exactly what that’s like. You can pass, but in the end, if anyone finds out who you are, that’s it. You’re finished._ ** ****

**_Do we have a deal?_ **

**_Al, lead?_** _”_

**[SCREAM]**

A loud bray of noise exploded inside the room. The screech of radio feedback. Angel recoiled, shoving two hands against the sides of his aching head. His vision blurred at the edges, and he just managed to catch himself with his other hands.

_What the fuck was that?_

Clear, distinct voices had rung out at the end of that hellish, warped broadcast. Voices that certainly did not belong to Alastor. Angel shook, stomach churning with acute dyspepsia, trying to connect the dots of this nightmarish puzzle.

Everything’s going haywire, he thought.

A whimper, at his side.

“Alastor?” he rasped out, swallowing saliva and willing the bile down.

“Turn it off,” Alastor pleaded. “Turn it off.”

“I can’t-” He swung his head away, wincing at the jarring movement. “Charlie! Vaggie! Fuckin’ anyone! Help!”

Charlie’s and Vaggie’s room was just down the hall. Angel fervently hoped that they were inside, and not holed up in the office on the eighth floor. His head was spinning, darkness bleeding again inside his skull, eyes, throat. Alastor groaned again, twitching erratically next to him. Angel returned his hand to wherever he could reach of Alastor. He shuddered at the wetness.

_Per favore Dio, I don’t ask for much-_

He heard the slam of a door before the thudding of footsteps and he almost wept.

_Thank God._

And thank fuck he hadn’t bothered to shut the door.

* * *

The girls careened into the room. Charlie’s shrill voice penetrated the oleaginous blackness.

“Angel! What’s wrong?” Charlie shouted.

“Fuckin’ here! Something’s wrong with Al,” he whimpered. “He’s bleeding out, I don’t know, oh fuck, I don’t know what happened.”

“Wait, shit, hang on.”

Vaggie activated the flashlight app on her phone. The bright light flared like a beacon into the room. The only things illuminated were straight ahead, the rest of the room still shrouded in darkness. Angel looked up. The brilliant glare seared into his eyes and he blinked.

“Oh shit.”

He followed her gaze to the spot where Alastor lay, and gagged. The demon was torn apart, sides shredded. His torso lay in ribbons. Blood, both congealing and fresh, seeped out from the gaping wounds. Sluggish streams oozed down in thick rivulets where skin still clung.

As accustomed to the brutalities of Hell as he was, Angel still felt faint just cataloguing the damage. The old scars along his chest were much more numerous, but the fresher ones more apparent. Swallowing, he ran his hand across Alastor’s chest, to the side of his sternum. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the trembling, or his own pitiful hope, but he swore he felt feathery fluttering. Then, he spotted a flash of ivory near Alastor’s side and covered his mouth in horror.

Vaggie broke the stunned silence.

“It…fuck. It looks like it’s all self-inflicted. I don’t know what to fucking say. Shit. Angel, can you hang tight with him while me and Charlie grab the first aid kit from downstairs?”

He nodded, paralyzed, and struck dumb in shock. Charlie appeared to be as well if the trembling and tears were anything to go by.

“One more thing. Is he conscious? Al, are you there?”

Angel turned to him again, craning his neck for any signs of cognizance. Alastor’s eyes were shut, and his breathing shallow. His head was turned to the side, but the slight movement on the ruched sheets near his nose indicated some transfer of oxygen.

“He…he’s out cold. He was awake earlier, but he passed out again.”

“He say anything to you?”

“Not much, wanted me to turn the radio off, I think.”

“Fuck. Okay. Okay.”

Vaggie grabbed Charlie’s arm and spun on her heel.

As they rushed out, Vaggie called over her shoulder. “Make sure he doesn’t fucking move.” He heard her curse under her breath, a litany of Salvadorian-accented Spanish, before leaving.

The silence they left behind was irrefutable, stifling. He became acutely aware of the tears sliding down his face as he processed the situation. Alastor was hurt.

_Alastor was fucking hurt._

Since he’d been at the hotel, he had witnessed Alastor injured less than a handful of times. Each time pained Angel minutely more than the last. At the time, he wasn’t aware as to why, but he understood now, vehemently. His heart screamed out. He couldn’t do anything, he couldn’t help Alastor, he was utterly useless, how could he be, when he couldn’t even help the one he-

“Pru,” Alastor moaned, voice racked with pain.

_Pru?_

No, it’s me, Angel Dust, he wanted to say, but his throat was clotted with pain.

“Pru, ‘m cold,” he repeated, voice hitching this time as he shifted. His hand shot out blindly, and Angel caught it in his. Alastor turned gingerly on his side, pulling their clasped hands with him. The faint squelching from the sheets peeling off the bloody wounds delivered a punch of nausea to Angel’s stomach. That, coupled with the immense crushing to his head beckoned him to lie down. He curled against Alastor’s spine, placed his lips close to Alastor’s shoulder, still wet with blood, and did something he hadn’t done in close to a century.

He prayed.

* * *

A resonating crash echoed through the lobby as another box came flying above the bar. Three more smacks followed, along with the shattering of glass. Charlie winced.

“Vaggie?” she called over her girlfriend’s colorful swears. “Vags, maybe we should look somewhere else.”

“Babe, it’s supposed to freaking be here! I told that asshole that he was in charge of it,” she growled. “Fuckin’ asshole probably doesn’t even know the Heimlich maneuver.”

Her head popped out from behind the bar. “We even had a defibrillator! Who the fuck has a goddamn defibrillator in Hell?”

Charlie averted her eyes, rubbing her arm nervously. Vaggie’s frown dropped. She sighed.

“We do have some time to look. Al’s an Overlord, and he needs some time to heal on his own before we can administer anything to him. Satan knows if we try too early, his body might reject it, reject _us_ , and best-case scenario, we get mauled. Worst case.” Vaggie made a slitting motion in front of her neck with her index finger. At Charlie’s continued moping, she scooted around the bar top, coming closer to her girlfriend. She forced a small smile.

“It’ll be fine, hon. Alastor’s a tough cookie. Maybe he just had a nervous breakdown. I mean, we’ve all been feeling under the weather. It may have been too much for him to handle.”

Charlie returned it. “You’re right. I’m probably overreacting, as usual.”

Vaggie reached out to grab her hand. Her hands were soft.

“No, Charlie. You reacted correctly. Our friend was hurt. Look at Angel Dust. He couldn’t keep it together either. Like it or not-and believe you me, sometimes I fucking hate it-Alastor’s a part of our weird, fucked up family. And when something happens to family, it affects us all.” She glanced away. “Even I’d give anything not to see that again,” she admitted.

“Oh Vaggie,” Charlie said, holding on tighter. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes. Vaggie chuckled.

“Right. Now that _that_ sappy shit is out of the way, how’s about I keep searching behind the bar, and you-”

A distant chirping invaded the air. It lasted a second before Charlie felt the vibration at her hip. Tilting her head, she dug in her pocket and pulled out her phone.

She glanced down, eyes widening as disbelief coursed through her.

 **Dad** , it read. The picture above the text flickered with her father’s grinning visage. Vaggie peeked at it, having edged next to her shoulder.

“Speak of the Devil,” she muttered. Charlie’s hands shook.

_But…he never calls._

Vaggie snapped her out of it, grabbing her arm. She turned, facing her girlfriend with a pained look.

“Vags, what do I do?”

“Babe, it’s just your father, maybe he just wants to talk.” Vaggie’s voice wavered at the end and did little to assuage her nerves.

“Do…do you think it’s got something to do with what’s happening to Al?” Her voice trembled, a parallel to her hands.

Vaggie frowned. “I’m not sure.” She looked away, her shoulders taut.

Charlie’s heart ached at the worry etched on her girlfriend’s face. Her phone continued to vibrate. She clutched it tighter.

“Should I answer?”

“That’s up to you, hon,” Vaggie responded, steady and supportive as usual. Charlie found herself wishing, just the once, that her girlfriend would take a less neutral stance towards her family. She knew she reacted this way due to her own experiences with her family, but sometimes Charlie craved a more decisive attitude. That, Vaggie reserved specifically for the Van Helsings.

Without thinking much and letting blind panic guide her, she swiped the screen. It groaned.

“Dad?” She automatically pressed the speaker.

“Darling.” A familiar, unctuous voice slithered through.

“H-hey. What’s up?” Charlie flicked her gaze towards her girlfriend and was instantly greeted with the implication that she was dropping the ball. “Keep it cool,” Vaggie mouthed.

“Oh, funny you say that, dear. I know you’ve been _busy_ ,” he derisively bit out, “with that quaint hotel and what-have-you, so I understand you might not be as up to date with all of Hell’s comings and goings.” He trailed off. In her mind’s eye, Charlie pictured him examining his cuticles, the telltale warning before the jugular strike.

She bit her lip. “The hotel’s been super busy lately, I haven’t had time-”

“Charlemagne, there’s been an incident.”

Her stomach dropped at his change in tone. It was steel, serious, and laced with wire. She hadn’t witnessed it in over a century when her mother left after another vicious fight. The fortnight she endured without her was unbearable. There was no placating her father during that time; he snarled at everything and everyone, her included. When the initial shock wore off, he became iron. Cold and calculating, he barked out orders like it were the end of times. Charlie, little more than forty years of age, overheard conversations that suggested her father had always been like this, at least until he met her mother. She burst into tears the day her mother finally returned home.

The problem with wire, is that when it surrounds you every day, you start to become accustomed to the cuts, and begin to replace freedom with metal shards.

“Incident?”

Vaggie stepped closer and placed a hand on her arm, grounding her.

“I’ve just been informed that one of the containment levels, specifically Level Five, was breached. There have also been sightings of hulking, human-like figures shrouded in swathes of blinding light.”

Satan spare the messenger unlucky enough to deliver that message, she thought, already knowing the answer as her stomach puddled to the ground.

“Not more exterminator Angels?”

“Don’t be absurd, dear. That would violate the accord we hold with Heaven. Surely you’re at least informed enough to know that. Honestly, darling, it’s times like this when I’m beginning to wonder how on Earth you even managed to claw your way out of your mother’s womb.”

Distantly, Charlie heard Vaggie growl. He persisted, unfettered.

“Now, I’m extremely certain that you haven’t noticed the other strange phenomena, beginning with the sudden reappearance of stars and the like.” As he droned on, her mind sunk its teeth into one tiny detail.

_Stars?_

There were many fundamental facts in regards to Hell, but only three of them materialized in the front of her mind.

One: All things have a place until they don’t. This referred to the yearly extermination of sinners. Sinners and demons alike, barring a few notable exceptions, were vulnerable to angelic weapons. When they were pierced with one, they didn’t necessarily die, just ceased to exist corporally. Charlie wasn’t exactly sure where these wayward souls ended up, but many whispered that Hell itself absorbed them. As if Hell was a living conglomeration of dead souls.

Two: All souls are forfeit under the dominion of Lucifer. All souls are involuntarily contractually bound to him, from sinners to Overlords. There are only two ways to break a contract: by Lucifer’s grace or divine intervention.

Three: Stars do not exist in Hell. Stars are hope afire. Heaven-sent. The Wilde quote comes to mind, but in this case, everyone is in the gutter and there are no stars. Or, there _were_.

What could the sudden appearance mean?

Mulling over Alastor’s predicament and the erratic hotel sickness, she was clueless. Her father continued, oblivious to her lapse in attention.

“Unless, my darling offspring, you have something to add? You’ve gone awfully still.” Charlie started as his voice suddenly dropped a register, sounding almost concerned.

“Is everything all right there?”

Her mind screamed for her to tell him everything, but her heart warred against it. If there was indeed a breach, and it somehow targeted the hotel, that would mean danger for the occupants. Danger for Alastor. For Angel Dust. Husk, Niffty, Baxter. And all the rest of the souls residing in the hotel. _Her_ hotel.

But if she called for reinforcements, and there really were an invasion of exterminator angels, more of her people will die. A swarm of them running unprotected into the reaches of those harbingers of life was unthinkable. And there was the slim possibility that perhaps nothing was occurring. Her father would have dispatched soldiers for nothing. An Overlord and a porn star. Nothing worth spilling a drink over. They were as good as dead once the demons came upon them. A weakened Overlord, and oh, Angel Dust. There was no doubt they’d terminate Alastor immediately; it would be foolish to take a chance with the Radio Demon, handicapped or not. But an incapacitated sex worker…

She viciously terminated that line of thought.

She knew what her father would say. He’d berate her foolishness, sneer at her overreaction. All the while inwardly ruing the fact that he was saddled with her for an heir.

No, she scolded herself. _No_.

They needed her. Her friends needed her. Her father couldn’t care less about Alastor and Angel Dust, but they were her friends. They were each so singular, in their idiosyncrasies. Her funny little band of misfits.

_Her family._

She wouldn’t abandon them.

She had a job to do, after all.

She closed her eyes.

“Yeah, Dad. Everything’s fine for now. I’ll keep you posted. I promise.”

“All right.” A pause. Charlie bubbled with anxiety.

“Be safe.”

And:

“Your mother sends her love.”

The line clicked, dead.

“Charlie?” Vaggie called.

Her voice could be an ambulatory siren in the distance for all she knew. Part of the integral landscape, but easily forgettable. Her hand shook.

Vaggie placed a trembling palm over her white-knuckled grip. “Babe?” she called out hesitantly. “Baby,” she repeated. “What’s going on?”

Charlie stood stock-still for a moment, winding up the threads of her wayward thoughts into a tight spool.

“Vaggie,” she urged after her brush with catatonia. “We have to get to Alastor. Now.”

Before they could rush away, a small, glowing ball of pure white light appeared before them.

The light was blinding. Vaggie had the wherewithal to back away. She yanked Charlie’s arm, but she found she couldn’t move, transfixed as she was. They both hissed as it pulsated once, like a blinking fluorescent light, before brightening.

It flickered again.

Then, it exploded.

Light flooded the hotel.

* * *

“Good morning, Alastor. It’s time to wake up now.”

His eyelids sprang open.

A warmth curved against his back, and he looked down to see pink fingers tangled with his own.

Angel, he thought.

He squeezed them tighter together, unthinkingly. Squinting, he attempted to adjust his eyesight.

Without his monocle, it was difficult to see out of one eye, but there was no mistaking the ethereal glow bleeding within every inch of his vision.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said, before he lost consciousness again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Etta James’s song of the same name, I’d Rather Go Blind.
> 
> Charlie references another one of Oscar Wilde’s quotes, “No, we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars” from his play, Lady Windermere’s Fan. It is said by Lord Darlington in Act Three.


	11. You took the part (that was once my heart)

Alastor remembered passing out, and vaguely recalled dreaming.

This, however, he was certain was a nightmare.

Everything was pitch black. He couldn’t make out anything remotely discernable. Here, in the tenebrous space, everything stretched onwards into endless dark. If there ever existed the ends of the earth, where it all falls away, this was it.

The only thing that came to mind was the word, _absence_. The sense of unease didn’t just fill him; it boiled and bubbled over.

He called out hesitantly, at first nonspecific, then an idea struck him:

“Angel? Angel, are you there?”

None of the words echoed. They lingered in the dead air, hovering for a beat, then were swallowed by the pitch gaping maw. He didn’t dare step any further lest it led to some labyrinthian trap. The dearth of echo was more unnerving than it had every right to be. He tried again:

“Angel? Angel, can you hear me?”

Nothing.

Teeth chattering slightly due to the anomalous chill, vastly different from Hell, he waited. He couldn’t say for how long, unused to the absence of noise, sights, and odors. A taste lingered in the air, however, and he found there were no words in his admittedly substantial vocabulary to describe it.

No, that was incorrect.

Feeling marginally moronic, he smacked his lips. There it was. That mysterious note of-

 _No_.

It couldn’t possibly be.

It tasted like marsh grass, gasoline, old furs, cigar smoke, boiled crawfish, blood, and brackish water. Just all emulsified and evaporated, like a vapor.

It smelled like home.

Louisiana.

Alastor started at the low rumbling in the distance. When before there was a vacuum, an absence of sound, now there was far too much; the sudden inversion, jarring.

Voices trickled in, faintly at first, then gradually louder. In the beginning, it was like being underwater and recognizing the general cadence of conversation, but not being able to interpret any of the words beyond the sloshing of water. Alastor focused.

The words became clearer.

(Jeepers, that sure is a lot of blood.)

(Is this some frenzied intercourse thing they do in Hell that wasn’t in the books? What do they call that again? Rutting? A rut?)

(I mean, it’s a long shot. Then again, they do look like animals.)

(The red one has antlers. Not sure what the pink one’s supposed to be.)

(Maybe a type of rodent slash giraffe hybrid, perhaps?)

(Eh, I was thinking more of a bug or something, like a bumblebee or a caterpillar.)

(But pink? Seems unnatural, but then what do I know-)

Alastor’s eyes shot open.

Everything was blurry, out of focus. He reached blindly for his monocle, hissing as bolts of Hellfire lashed over his torso. The pain was crippling, but he bit savagely down to keep from crying out. His mouth flooded with copper.

“Woah, easy there. I don’t advise you to move, like, at all. I think you’re stuck to these sheets for the time being. What count are these by the way?”

There had been a time in Alastor’s existence when he couldn’t accurately predict his outbursts: when they would happen, or what triggered it. He believed that he improved both prediction and catalyst identification in Hell, or during the last years of his life. He could pinpoint exactly when his buttons were sufficiently pushed before the homicidal urge overwhelmed him and spilled over. He had it down to the minute, now. But there were always exceptions to the rule, especially during times of crises and flight or fight moments.

This was one of those special times.

“Oh good _Lord,_ what is happening?”

“That’s new.”

His antlers branched out with remarkable speed.

His reserves, diminished, fired up partially in thanks to all the blood dripping out from him. He concentrated as his bones cracked and refit themselves to accommodate his expanding form. Radio static crackled through the air, reaching a hideous crescendo. His claws lengthened as the loa symbols peeled from his skin and danced around his body. Angel stirred next to him, moaning.

The radio dials were tuning, now.

“Spray it, already! Dear God, it’s mutating!”

“Hang on, let me find it first.”

“How did you manage to fit all of that in there? And why?”

“Look, you would too if you knew what this place is like. Beartrap, zip ties, nope, nope, dental floss…ah. Here.”

Alastor registered the sound of a canister shaking, as far gone as he was, but nothing prepared him for-

The cold mist rained onto his broken skin. Two things happened in quick succession.

He screamed.

Angel jolted awake.

“The fuck?”

The pain was more than blinding, it was raw and visceral, nerves set afire and doused with more gasoline. It tore into his being, flaying him back alive to the point where he desperately begged for it to end, to be snuffed out of existence to escape the excruciation. It dug dull nails into his open wounds and ripped them open in an endless spiral of pain with no foreseeable end in sight. Dark spots grouped in clusters at the edge of Alastor’s vision. He was on the precipice of dying or fainting, whichever happened to come first.

Then, in an instant, it abated.

Just like that.

Alastor gasped, arching. The redness slowly seeped from his eyes and his vision became slightly clearer. He blinked the excess away as his body came down from the shock. The room waded muzzily into focus, his right eye still blurred.

Angel trembled next to him, three of his hands a vice grip on Alastor’s arm.

“What in the fuck? Al, what the fuck is goin’ on?” His voice rose accordingly with his building hysteria. “Who the fuck are you?”

Coughing, Alastor choked out, “Monocle.”

“Ah, right here.”

He winced as the glass landed on his chest.

“Oops, sorry! Butterfingers!”

Gritting his teeth, he placed it over his eye. He gingerly sat up, elbows first, then to an upright position. The world swam into clearer focus, and he wasn’t sure if he preferred that, all things considered.

The two beings before him were remarkably human-like. Nothing at all like the Exterminator Angels that wore a macabre visage. No, these resembled actual people, living breathing people, with the added benefit of huge, sweeping wings.

Cliché, he thought absently. Heaven could do better.

The male-presenting one craned his neck to peer at him curiously, now that he deemed him less of a threat than before. Alastor felt a bit like a specimen in a curated museum and didn’t overly care for the feeling. He said as such.

“My humblest apologies, sir! Never seen a demon before in my afterlife! Did you know that was my first time?”

Alastor knew something was amiss when Angel didn’t pounce on the double entendre.

He flicked his eyes to him. Angel, to Alastor’s chagrin, resembled a deer frozen in headlights.

Alastor himself felt like a spider trapped in its own web.

The irony was not lost on him.

“What exactly is going on,” he asked, vocal cords fried, rendering him hoarse. He coughed and a thin stream of red spittle trickled out.

“Why, redemption!” the Angel exclaimed, gesticulating with wings spreading outwards. “Or a, er… _stab_ …at it, at least!”

Alastor held no small amount of pride in his quick wit and astounding mental acumen. Even during his formative years, he was a force to be reckoned with. He outwitted and outmaneuvered his colleagues with ease, dancing circles around their middling, at best, rhetoric. The preachers at his church owned silver tongues; Alastor’s was golden. He wielded it as he brandished his mind: sharp and tapered to a point. All those traits followed him down, so it was with little wonder that he dominated the airwaves, and otherwise. He was under the impression that such adroitness would last eternal.

He gaped, a loss for words.

Well, he supposed, it was nice while it lasted.

Angel, damn his heart, somehow managed to sputter out: “Excuse me, the fuck? My hearin’s kinda fucked up from Radio, here, but didya just say ‘redemption’ or am I losin’ it?”

“Probably a bit of both,” Alastor sighed, having thrown in the towel.

He’d hoped to go out with dignity, but it seemed that was also a pipe dream.

“Look, sorry about the weird pun. My partner likes to overdo it sometimes,” the she-Angel said. “But we’re serious about the whole redemption thing. It’s real.”

“ _Dead_ serious!” the he-Angel chimed.

“Will. You. Stop? Jesus Christ, you’re worse than Gabriel.”

 _That_ set Alastor to rights, and he stiffened, suffusing the air with crackling static.

“I thought Angels were not supposed to use the Lord’s name in vain? Or am I mistaken?” He leaned forward, baring his teeth. “Do elucidate, I’m _dying_ to know.”

The Angel elbowed his partner before pointing at him with his index fingers and thumbs extended.

Finger guns, he recognized belatedly. Angel was definitely rubbing off on him.

“Hah! He gets it!”

The female-presenting one introduced the heel of her hand to her forehead.

Alastor thought the answering groan satisfied all of them.

She leveled her gaze at him, steady but wary. He refused to feel discombobulated.

“Look, first and foremost, we’re Angels. We live all the way up there,” she pointed overhead to emphasize, “and we can’t be bothered to deal with censorship the way you guys down here think we do. My guy, Heaven’s called ‘Heaven’ for a reason, and it’s named aptly.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed in disbelief, but she continued. “You can choose to believe us or not, but time is definitely of the essence, and in a couple of minutes, you’ll have no choice but to.”

“Redemption is involuntary. How fitting,” Alastor remarked dryly. He covered his eyes with his palm and dragged it down his face, in the same direction his stomach was dropping.

“My sanguine friend, I wouldn’t say it’s involuntary in the least! After all, isn’t this your signature next to this specific declaration, hereby proclaiming your assent to redemption should a Miss Charlemagne’s venture prove fruitful? Right under that clause stating you as her business partner? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m under the impression that these contracts are set in stone! Like…”

“Please don’t-”

“The Ten Commandments, hey!”

Like a slate, Alastor’s mind wiped clean. He had forgotten about that particular clause. At the time, the addition seemed a fair idea. There was no evidence thus far that redemption was even a possibility, much less a goal. Everything operated under a sense of unchecked optimism, a “flying by the seat of your pants” mentality. The hotel, redemption-wise, flew aimlessly through a hopeless sky, packed chock-full with good intentions, but devoid of a pilot.

No one expected them to stick the landing.

He inwardly cursed his folly as Angel rallied next to him.

“What kinda sick joke is this? So you’re sayin’ redemption is possible? What in the fuck?”

“Dun, dun, dun,” he crowed, grinning. “Betcha didn’t expect that!”

Angel hissed at him, and Alastor felt irrationally proud. “We don’t expect shit because ya ain’t supposed to be here!”

“He’s not wrong,” Alastor agrees without aplomb. “Don’t dangle the carrot if it’s unnecessary.”

The female Angel rolled her eyes while opening her arms and unfolding her wings. “Well, here we are. You don’t have anyone to blame but Charlemagne.”

She cracked her neck, facing upward. “And the higher-ups. Not for nothing, but they were enamored with the damn idea.”

“Are you fuckin’-”

“What exactly does this entail?” Alastor’s voice cut through Angel’s query. The male Angel smiled placatingly back.

Alastor was overwhelmed with the opposite feeling.

“Just a few minor evaluations, here and there. Checking if your soul is up to… _snuff_ …and all that. Nothing too dog and pony.”

“That was incoherently vague. I’d like some specifics, if at all within your grasp. Let’s say, for brevity’s sake, we believe you. What, pray, comes next?”

“We can’t let the proverbial cat out of the bag, just yet. If you ask me, it’s all a bit hand-wavy,” she groused, aiming another pointed look at her partner, presumably for the morbid pun.

“So ya can’t explain it, but somehow, we can be redeemed.” Alastor started at the final note of hope in Angel’s statement, and it flayed yet another part of him open.

He didn’t want to dwell on the fact that the way he reacted to the presence of the celestial beings was vastly different from the feel of Angel wrapped around him. If he were to be honest with himself, the touch radiated an ineffable warmth into his very bones. It felt like a balm over eradicated skin.

It felt a little like home.

The thought disturbed him less than it should.

Angel cantered on, oblivious to Alastor’s ruminative wanderings. “So you’re sayin’ we can be redeemed, but ya just gotta run through a couple of things.”

“Exactly. Criteria-although technically, you’ve already met it-and the usual Heavenly procedural stuff. Just your usual meet-cute at first, followed by a strong argument on why you deserve redemption. Not to be pedantic, but it does require an immense amount of moxie and effort. Can’t be faked, of course. We can tell if you’re being genuine or not, being Angels and all.”

“Omnipresent, to an extent,” she tacked on to his spiel.

Angel tilted his head as if allowing the words to flow through his brain better.

“So…just like that?”

He snapped his fingers.

“Just like that,” the Angel said, repeating the gesture.

Alastor, for his part, was not remotely convinced.

“Meet-cute?”

“All right. Admittedly, more of a time-out.”

“With…the both of us?” Skepticism colored Angel’s voice. Alastor couldn’t say he disagreed.

“Yep! Oh man, how rude of us! We haven’t introduced ourselves!” He leaned forward, reaching out a hand. “I’m Turiel. Pleasure to meet you both.”

When no one took it, he pulled it back and pivoted to his partner, pointing. “And this is Arariel!”

Arariel glowered. “I can introduce myself, man.”

Turiel, to Alastor’s dismay, walked closer to the edge of the bed. He wisely stopped roughly two feet from it, however, which could have also been due to the faint red glow he was emitting, and the staticky warning noises.

When no answer was forthcoming, the Angel sighed.

“So…introductions?” he suggested, wings flapping a bit forlornly, in Alastor’s opinion, if he held any ones about wings. He decided at that moment, he vehemently did not. Something else niggled at the back of his mind that was less forthcoming but slowly made itself to the forefront, nevertheless.

“You already know my name. You called me by it when you roused me. Tell me, are all Angels this touched in the head?”

“Okay. Firstly, wow, rude. Secondly, what do you mean? We just showed up, then you woke up, swore at us, and passed out again. Not a solid first impression, man,” Arariel groused. “Maybe you’re the one with head issues.”

“I most certainly do not-”

He paused. Oh, he most certainly _did_.

“Voices. Dreams. Headaches. That’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it?” Alastor gritted out, trying to keep his comportment in check. It was much more trying than earlier; he felt as if he were losing his sanity with every minute ticking by.

“Oh, that! Why, that’s your humanity returning! You know, conscience and all that. Can’t have you prepped for redemption all willy nilly with no leg to stand on. We need you as fresh as daisies. Heck, fresher!”

“Al, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Join the club, man.”

“Excuse me, but you’ve _chosen_ to arrive here if I recall. If anyone should be indisposed, it’s that one”-Alastor pointed to Angel-“and I.”

A shuffling noise to the side of him, roughly two feet away, caught his attention. The Angel Turiel flipped through a notepad, licking a finger with every turn of the page. Alastor sneered in disgust.

“You must be,” he mumbled, scanning the page, “Alastor LeRoux! Oh, ha! _Roux_. Red. Fun.”

Maybe, Alastor thought, this was an entirely novel dimension in Hell that he and Angel accidentally stumbled into. It was the only logical explanation that explained this lunacy.

“And Anthony DeLuca! Nice, nice. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, shall we begin?”

“Wait, ya didn’t even explain shit! What’re gonna do with us?” Angel’s pitch went higher as he began grasping the entirety of the situation. He swung his head towards Alastor. “Al?”

Alastor sighed, skin already knitting over the wounds striping his torso. He didn’t bother searching for a shirt. There was still enough blood to soak through and plaster it to his body like a second skin. He forced his eyes up to meet Angel’s wide ones.

“They’re going to return our souls to us and lock us in a room while they decide how to proceed with redemption,” he stated flatly, continuing despite the protests from the two, “I’m guessing they’ll have tortuous games for us, maybe a mind rape or two if we’re unlucky. And when they tire of the test subjects and inevitably decide that we are in fact, unredeemable, they’ll throw us back to the wolves and will either start anew or deem it a failure and return to whence they came.”

He flicked his eyes to the other two in the room. “That sound about right?”

Turiel sputtered while Arariel shoved her face in her hand.

“No! That is categorically wrong and false and…argh!” he shouted indignantly, trying to hit his point home by smacking a fist in an opened palm. Alastor responded by rolling his eyes.

“Hit a nerve?” he sneered.

Angel squeezed his hand, trembling slightly.

Oh.

Alastor’s eyes widened as he realized they remained connected still. He looked down. He had barely begun to process this before Turiel spoke.

“How can you have archaic beliefs about us? My goodness, how long have you been down here?”

Alastor grimaced, showing more teeth. “Let’s just say I had a run-in with one of your kind before. Suffice to say, I am not a fan.”

“What?” Arariel and Angel asked at the same time.

“So one could say. Earth-shattering and life-changing. Literally.”

Turiel opened his mouth to speak, but Alastor swiftly cut him off. “I’d rather not go into it now. I’m sure we’ll have much more time to discuss it during your…interrogation.”

Angel whimpered, and Alastor subconsciously tightened his grip. The soft clench in response allowed him to lower his hackles.

Somewhat.

He was suddenly filled with a devastating urge to protect. His vision bled red, and his right bicep began twinging with familiar pinpricks of hot pain. The malingering reserves of his power surged within him, rearing back in a striking pose.

“I hope you didn’t expect we come quietly,” he hissed, static and tuning noises rising steadily.

All of a sudden, a wave of pure power, much unlike his, crashed up against him, a torrent of unyielding pressure. Weakened as he was, his eyes reverted from radio dials, as he doubled over in shock. It wasn’t pain, it was something _more_ , something ethereal.

A cage?

Angels, he thought later, were rather sprightly when panicked.

“Whelp!” came a voice, jumpy with nerves. “We’ve explained it the best we could! See you on the flip side!”

“Wait, what-”

Alastor felt a creeping darkness wash over him. From the feel of Angel’s hand in his, he reasonably deduced it was from the same experience.

God fucking damn it, he thought, uncharacteristically for the Radio Demon but not for a human, before he sunk into unconsciousness for the third time in one day.

God fucking damn it.

* * *

It was excruciatingly blinding.

Charlie screamed as it carved into her flesh, twenty dozen tiny paper cuts that stung with each pass at her skin. Her horns grew and lengthened in response; her fangs extended down towards her bottom lip. Vaggie was saying something to her, but she couldn’t hear it.

The light was too blinding; it was scorching, it was fire.

There was a low hum breaking past the painful symphony blaring in her head. It undulated, dipping up and back down in a rhythmic cadence that sounded familiar, for some reason.

Dip, murmur, up-pitch, hum.

She focused on the pattern, easing out of the pain. It soothed her, achingly familiar and wonderful.

Oh, she thought, thunderstruck. Vaggie.

It was her voice leading her back.

The pain slowly subsided as the noises came rushing back. Now, she could hear what her girlfriend was yelling.

“What in the fuck are you assholes doing?”

A low, monotone voice answered.

“Yeah, you know, turns out time works differently in Heaven and Hell. Guess you can’t immediately rewind or appear in two different places at once. Huh. You learn something new every day.”

Charlie blinked.

Two beings stood facing her, one with her arms crossed and hip cocked to the side, and the other with an outstretched hand. It reminded her eerily of her first meeting with Alastor, and her hand lifted out of instinct regardless. Vaggie’s hand shot out and gently steered it down. Before she could say anything, the person spoke.

“Turiel. Very nice to meet you!” At Vaggie’s pointed glare, he dropped his hand. He sighed, blowing out a breath.

“Well. We certainly weren’t expecting a welcome party, but you demons really take the cake on reception,” he said, wings drooping a little.

Charlie goggled.

_Wings._

As the last of the extreme light subsided, Charlie fully realized the situation. Behind them were two pairs of enormous, feathery wings. The feathers shimmered, iridescent. They shone like beacons amid a winter sea storm, gleaming wetly polychromatic even under Hell’s dull crimson lighting. Charlie had never seen something so single-handedly divine in her damned life. It soothed the pain, somewhat, at the knowledge that something so fantastic could exist at all.

“Charlie,” her mouth automatically offered. She cleared her throat. “I’m Charlie Magne. Nice to meet you, too.”

At that admission, Turiel gave a wide, almost Alastor-like (were it not for the rows of shiny, blunt, white teeth) smile. The being next to him rolled her eyes at him, before giving Charlie the once-over.

She sighed. “The name’s Arariel,” she said, looking around. “I’m assuming this is the Hazbin Hotel.”

“You’d be right,” she answered, still dumbstruck.

Thank Satan for Vaggie, she thought as her girlfriend blocked her body.

“Are you Angels? Is this some kind of joke? What exactly is happening here?”

“Why, divine intervention, of course!”

“A cosmic one,” Arariel muttered, dodging as Turiel’s wings clipped her. “Or Deux ex Machina, whatever you want to call it.”

“And, wait for it…” He air drummed, wingspan lengthening. “We’re here to do a trial run!”

“Trial run?” Charlie tilted her head, half expecting something to spill out. Her head was buzzing, as was her stomach. The strange anxiety bubbled up inside her, increasing with every awesome moment. The synapses crackled and transferred contact. She gasped.

“For redemption?”

“Right you are, ma’am! Let’s start with the overview, as we previously mentioned…”

Turiel droned on, spouting off the idea behind it, who exactly to credit for this plan coming into fruition, and other such nonsense. Charlie tuned it out, her mind blotting and going still. Nausea battled with giddiness for top dominance as she allowed her mind to absorb this new information. She settled for a mixture of the two, along with glee, and screamed inwardly. Tears formed in the corner of her eyes.

This is it, she thought. This is what all this was for.

“We’ve decided to start in pairs.”

“But why Alastor and Angel, specifically?”

At the mention of the names, Charlie broke out of her spell.

“What?” she said, eyes widening. Vaggie sighed, pinching her shoulder. She gave Charlie an exasperated look that said: you missed it all, didn’t you, babe?

Charlie sheepishly nodded.

“Naturally, the test run will feature the most prominent sinners at the hotel. In addition to that, they seem to get on like a house on fire! That just makes it easier for us,” Turiel said, then added, _sotto voce_ , talking behind his hand, “For the plan.”

_The plan. What was that again?_

Vaggie furrowed her brow.

“Are we talking about the same two demons?”

“The red deer and the pink thing?” Arariel clarified.

Charlie frowned, turning over the information in her head. “I mean, I wouldn’t say that they’re exactly like, bosom buddies.”

Arariel mimicked her expression, then turned to Turiel.

“Didn’t we just see them spooning in bed?”

“What.”

“Look, in any case, they seem more familiar with each other now. Which makes it ten times better! Easier to determine worthiness that way, I always say,” Turiel said.

“So you’re saying it’s possible they’ll be redeemed?”

Charlie braced for a chorus of radio noise and a rebuttal in the negative, as she navigated déjà vu.

“Well…let’s take it one thing at a time. To be quite frank, we just checked the records and the red one-Alastor LeRoux-seems to be a tad more…homicidal…than the other one. I wouldn’t necessarily bet my money on that one quite just yet, if you get my drift.”

“A slim to none chance,” Arariel agreed.

Charlie’s heart sank.

“I don’t understand…then why even present it as a possibility? Why even tease the idea, to begin with?”

Turiel shrugged. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, my friend. Can’t tell you if I don’t know, myself.”

“Look, I like that you’re willing to help us, but I’m not sure I can stomach the thought of Al getting put through the wringer with nothing to show for it at the end. And not being considered fairly for redemption,” Charlie said, chewing her lip.

“Fair enough. I do have to say, Charlie Magne, that this is but a trial run. Miracles don’t just happen overnight!”

“No.”

Vaggie’s voice sliced through the patter. She moved back in front of Charlie, crossing her arms. Turiel cocked his head. Arariel let out a long-suffering sigh.

“And your name was, again?”

“You can call me Vaggie. But fuck you if you think we’re going to let you do shit without giving Al a fair shot.”

“You know what they say, you make your bed,” Arariel drawled before Turiel shushed her.

“None of that, now.” He cocked his head in the opposite direction, silently regarding Vaggie. She was a stone statue, hardened and unwilling to budge. After a moment, he hummed.

“Deal.”

Charlie felt immense pride and affection swell up in her.

“Just promise us you’ll let him show you how he can be. How deserving he is of redemption. Just give him a fair shake.”

Turiel nodded while Arariel rubbed her eye.

“You guys are weirdly sentimental for demons,” she said.

Charlie smiled as Vaggie cracked a tiny one. “So they tell us.”

She grabbed Vaggie’s hand, squeezing once. Her girlfriend laced her fingers through hers, before turning to the Angels.

“So where the Hell are they now?”

Turiel nervously laughed, creating a heart with his hands and tapping the nails together.

“Funny you should ask that. So, the thing is-”

Husk and Niffty barreled into the room.

“What in the fuck,” he gasped, chest heaving with exertion, “is happening?”

Niffty screeched, her voice pitching higher with each question, “Who are you? Are those wings? Are you all Angels? Why are you here?”

“What the shit is going on?”

“Maybe we should start from the top again,” Turiel said in a weak voice.

Arariel snorted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the song, All of Me, performed by many artists but especially by Billie Holiday.


	12. It isn’t fair (for you to taunt me)

Alastor gasped as he jolted awake.

The world came swimming into view.

Or what remained of it, anyway. The surroundings were night, again. The smell, distinctly bayou. He belatedly realized that he was back in the darkened prison-cum-labyrinth-cum-void.

 _Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate_ , he recited crossly in his head. _This was certainly starting to get old._

He promptly turned to the side and retched.

 _Silver lining_ , he thought absently as dry heaves wracked his body. The best part of this whole ordeal was that no one was around to see him gag.

“Al?”

He stood corrected.

Alastor turned to face Angel to the best of his ability, nausea peaking and crashing in waves. He met Angel’s widened eyes, noting that he was shivering even in the absence of wind and chill. The fingers that lay at his sides twitched uncontrollably. Another pair of limbs tightened around his torso. He didn’t bother to extract the other two, Alastor noticed. The trembling would probably be more of the same.

“Al, where are we?”

Angel’s voice sounded unnaturally tinny, a stark contrast to his usual boisterous, cocksure self. An unsettling sensation frothed up from within unfathomable depths, and Alastor was hit with a peculiar urge to reassure him. Nevertheless, he answered as factually as he could. Superfluous assurances would only feed hope, after all.

“I assume we’re back in the prison I mentioned earlier. Our little ‘time-out’,” he spat, naked claws scrabbling at the unmarred floor, “with our corporeal bodies trapped inside my room.”

“Oh,” Angel said. There it was, again: that small, timorous voice. It bothered Alastor for reasons he most assuredly did not want to examine now, especially when Angels were wreaking havoc in the hotel and smearing his Overlord reputation. He pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. He was losing the plot, and soon all of his humanity will have returned. After all these long years of careful culling and deracinating every last bit of his soul, it was being restored to him in all its shredded glory. He flexed his fingers, itching to pierce his claws through the wing bones of those insufferable Angels. And then, tearing.

Alastor remembered how pathetically weak he was as a human. He refused to capitulate himself again. Angel stirred next to him, fidgeting, but Alastor paid him no mind, lost as he was in thought, until he finally spoke.

“Hey, Al?”

“What,” he snapped, train of thought thoroughly derailed. He could feel the irritation peaking in metronomic count with his panic. He swiveled around to face Angel.

He was cowering.

Something forcibly jammed inside Alastor, like a puzzle piece fitting in place. The unfamiliar feeling known as guilt rose to the surface. He reached out, an attempt at placation, only for Angel to flinch.

He yanked his hand back as if that reaction scorched him. A very distant, small, hollow part of him thought it might have. He swallowed and tried again.

“Yes, Angel?”

“Are ya gonna bite my goddamn head off? Or are ya gonna let me fuckin’ talk?” Angel’s voice wavered, but the familiar sass bled through. The knot in Alastor’s chest unfurled, a touch.

“You may speak, now,” Alastor said, wryly. Angel scoffed.

“Well, I was gonna ask ya what the fuck is goin’ on, but turns out, that’s a stupid question because how the Hell would you know, right? Same shit creek, same canoe, no paddle.”

“That’s surprisingly astute of you. And yes, that question would not have been well received.”

“Least ya can admit that,” Angel said, relaxing somewhat. He put a hand to his forehead and ran fingers through his hair.

“This is fuckin’ surreal.”

“Preaching to the choir, dear.”

Angel folded his legs, and bent his head back, staring up at the abyssal maw. It seemed to Alastor that he was trying to comprehend everything that had occurred thus far, but that could also be him projecting onto Angel. Alastor was not used to such unpredictability and chaos, least of all when he happened to bear the brunt of it. Chaos was fine and dandy when it served his purposes. To have his own weapon directed at him was infuriating.

_Hoisted with his own petard, indeed._

He snapped his fingers, a nervous tic from another life. The clicking sound his claws emitted brought him back down to baseline. He wrestled with the urge to eviscerate, a common pastime of his that curbed anxiety. And Alastor was overburdened with it now.

Currently, they were non-corporeal. The possibilities were endless. Even Alastor couldn’t begin to understand the minds of Angels. For all he knew, it was a trap to get them to murder the other. Cull the herd, so to speak. Alastor refused to be complicit in such a machination. Another reason against obliterating Angel floated to the surface, but Alastor was nothing if not obstinate. He steadfastly ignored it.

Angel broke the silence.

“Anthony.”

Alastor turned. He blinked slowly, once.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Angel Dust is my stage name. Anthony. That’s my real name. From before,” he said, voice deceptively light. “I know the assholes kinda gave it away earlier, but I just wanted to properly introduce myself, I guess.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow, scanning him for any internal and external injuries. Blows to the back of the head, and so forth.

“I’m not comprehending. The point, Angel- _Anthony_ ,” he corrected. “Is there one?”

Angel returned an exhausted glare. “This is a meet-cute, right? Ain’t we supposed to get better acquainted? Looks like we’re stuck together, for now. I ain’t exactly sure what those bastards are gonna do to us, so we better get comfortable, fast.”

Alastor couldn’t help it. He laughed.

“Starting with our Christian names? Very well. Alastor. Rather anticlimactic, isn’t it?”

Angel bit down a smirk. “For you? A little. Figured as much, though.”

“Oh, shut it. It’s an old family name. Papa hated it, said he wanted something more biblical. Mama fought tooth and nail. In the end, Alastor won, and my _père_ left. Not immediately, mind. Mama always said it was a long time coming, but that was the nail in the coffin.”

Well, that and Jim Crow, he thought before the execution of his spiel caught up with him. The words had left him in a rush. His brain stuttered to a stop.

He articulated the entire narration in his creole accent.

Angel gawked at him. It was nothing compared to what Alastor himself felt. Normally, he exerted total control over his speech. He’d done countless radio shows, in the afterlife and otherwise, and not once had he slipped. He was as adept in code-switching almost as well as he was at passing.

The Angels were to blame, he knew. And Heaven, while he was at it. The most intrusive thought that burrowed into his mind was the overwhelming desire to rend one of those Angels apart. Preferably the overly jolly one.

He shoved the obtrusive tendrils to the back of his mind and untwisted his tongue.

He cleared his throat. “What else is there left to explain?”

He was immensely grateful that the question came out in his normal, radio announcer speak. Angel, to his credit, graciously chose to ignore the lapse.

“Smiles, I went first. I ain’t a gamblin’ man, but ain’t it your turn?”

 _Yes_ , he supposed. _It was._

There was something that had been bothering him, months back, but he never found the right time to approach Angel about it. More accurately, the sadistic beast in him delighted at the lengths Angel took to avoid him after the incident, and decided it was much more entertaining to watch him flounder. However, they currently did not have the luxury of time. The incident with the Angels and the possibility of redemption propelled everything to the forefront.

Alastor smiled, rictus again.

“Since we’re getting to know each other better, Anthony, what exactly _were_ you privy to, that night at the studio?”

The color fled Angel’s face. Alastor veered closer, poised to strike.

“Did you think I didn’t notice you?”

He leaned in, invading Angel’s personal space. Angel jerked his head back as far as it could go, which wasn’t far enough in Alastor’s opinion. His neck was still in striking distance.

“Dear,” he purred. “Husker got your tongue? I don’t recall you being this laconic, ever. If at all.”

“Fuck you, Al,” he retorted, utilizing the last of his bravado.

“There we are. I was beginning to think you’ve lost all your charm. So. What _did_ you witness?”

“The Hell you talkin’ ‘bout,” he stammered, caught dead to rights.

“I’m addressing the time you spied on Vox and me,” he said, emphasizing the verb with a hiss.

Angel faltered under the accusation. Redness crept up his face, blooming crimson under his fur. His shoulders drooped.

“Right. That time.”

“It didn’t strike you as odd?”

Angel took a deep breath before switching gears.

 _No sense in beating around the bush. No chance in Hell now after being trapped into a corner_ , Alastor thought.

“More than that, Smiles. Fuckin’ miles more. The fuck was so important that ya hadda run to Vox, outta all people? What the fuck was on that tape that was so goddamn vital?”

A memory, unbidden.

_Security camera footage, hazy with static storm, painted in shades of grey, a lone moth fluttering in the corner. Unmistakably Louisiana._

“Oh, just your typical bog standard picture show, nothing to get worked up about.”

“Stop. Lying,” Angel hissed through teeth.

He regarded Angel for a long moment. He took a second to process the sheer insolence; how the way he just spoke and behaved towards him would have all but assured his destruction had it happened years ago when they first became acquainted. Yet that was then. The current circumstances bewildered Alastor more so.

Nowadays, Angel Dust seemed less afraid of him and more likely to mouth off.

Nowadays, Alastor was more lenient of his behavior and even less in control of his own.

He blamed the Angels, again. _Those meddling fools_ , he thought bitterly. _The second I get my claws on their wings, I will rend them to pieces._

Angel continued to glare. A flash of indignation rushed through him, but it was just that. A flash, and then it disappeared.

“There’s a shack,” he began, accent blessedly transatlantic, “in New Orleans near a bayou called St. John. From time to time, Vox agrees to show me glimpses of the surveillance footage from the security camera propped up under its roof, as long as I agree to certain terms.”

He continued, bolstered by Angel’s fascinated stare. Alastor always did enjoy an audience.

“The deal is, as you may have already surmised, that I, for want of a better word, _dispose_ of whatever pesky demon is bothering Valentino that year, in addition to supplying him his choice of tunes during my show. That number ranges from ten to fifteen, depending on how maudlin he chooses to be.”

Angel remained silent, processing the information. Feeling especially mischievous, Alastor threw him a curveball.

“So much hassle for a _lover_ , don’t you find?”

Angel snapped back to reality, startled. He warily eyed him as he spoke.

“Smiles. While I find that it’s fuckin’ weird that you wanna look at some security camera shit in your downtime, it’s way more fuckin’ strange that ya know about Vox’s and Val’s…thing.”

Alastor sighed.

“I’m aware that my fellow Overlords are familiar with each other in the biblical sense, yes.”

Angel raised a brow, skeptical.

“And that ain’t bother you? Smiles, don’t mean to be rude, but sometimes ya act as if the idea of sex is the end of the world. Afterlife. Whatever. Point is, ain’t you a prude about that kinda stuff?”

Alastor resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Angel. While I choose not to parade amongst this crowd of fools, do remember that I was human once. Not all of us are struck with the insatiable impulse to fornicate. Sex sells, I daresay, since the advent of humankind. To reiterate, this is Hell. If I had any prior misgivings about sodomy and other aberrant relations-and I can assure you I did not-the current climate would have been enough to sway me otherwise.”

He grinned wider. “I’m not entirely puritanical. It’s absurd to see sex as sin. There’s more to it than that. Overlords are much more interested in gristle and viscera. And subjugation. It’s not _what_ a sinner is, my dear, it’s _how_ a sinner submits. And _when_.”

Angel tilted his head, regarding him pensively.

“Wow, Al. That was more open-minded than my goddamn dad when he caught me gettin’ frisky with the next-door neighbor.”

And softly, almost as an afterthought, “Ya surprise me every day.”

He met Alastor’s measured look. “That stance seems weird as Hell for someone who lived durin’ the early twentieth century, though.” Angel snickered. “Ya sure, ya ain’t like me?”

Alastor’s smile didn’t fade.

“My dear, I’d avoid assumptions. Being human is far more intricate and nuanced than we think. As Overlords, we can either purge those ideals and urges, or stoke them.”

Angel huffed a sigh, affecting a disappointed moue. Spurred by some bizarre quixotic notion, Alastor decided to indulge him, just the once.

“I was neither here nor there while alive. Temptations of the flesh were few and far between. In those rare cases when I indulged, biology was irrelevant.”

“What. Wait, _what_?” Angel shook his head as if the answer knocked some screws loose, and by doing so, would fit them back into place. Alastor hummed. He deigned not to elaborate further.

“So ya _have_ fucked someone before! This whole time we thought ya died a virgin or somethin’!”

“We?”

“Me, Husk, and Niffty had a bet goin’. Husk thought ya was a virgin, Niffty thought ya might have been mostly celibate in life due to being queer an’ all, and I thought that ya died a virgin but found some action here.”

Alastor furrowed his brow. “Why on Earth did you think that I would, in your crude words, ‘find some action’ in this Hellscape?”

Angel shrugged. “I dunno. Everyone eventually does.”

Alastor blinked, painfully slow, much like how he was comprehending Angel. “Angel. If I found it difficult to appreciate the allure of the human body, then why would I seek out one with beastly characteristics?”

“I mean, ya get used to it down here. Plus, there’s a whole buncha weird shit ya can do if you’re game enough. Didya know that dog demons knot?”

“Thank you, Angel,” Alastor said, sounding anything but. “I’m going to just lay here and let the Angels erase me if you don’t mind.”

“Aw, c’mon, Smiles. Don’t be such a prude! I mean, now that I know you’re not, wanna, ya know, bump uglies? End of the world, last supper kinda thing, right now?”

“No.”

“Aw, why not? If ya ask me, I’m dyin’ to see deer dick. Ya do have one, right?”

Alastor groaned, battering down the urge to throttle him. “Of course I do, and we are not going to discuss it.”

“But-”

“No.”

Another sigh left Angel’s lips. “You’re no fun, Al. This could be the last time before the main event. Those fuckers could come back and spear us to smithereens any minute. Coulda made my send-off a memorable one, but no.”

“I can still endeavor to do so if you’d like. It may not extend to _pleasures_ of the flesh, but it’s a similar enough sensation. So I’ve been told.”

“Yeah, that’s a hard no from me, Smiles.”

The ensuing silence was greatly appreciated by one party, at least. As much as Alastor found the banter amusing, he preferred not to detract from the real problem at hand. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t see this coming. He just didn’t envision it including him.

 _Redemption_ , he once said. _The non-existent humanity._

Stuck in an abyssal echo chamber with Angel Dust, Alastor ate his words. It tasted sour the whole way down.

It clawed at him, how easy he was to collar. Had he not been incapacitated, a different outcome may have arisen. Unfortunately, Heaven, and whoever was in charge of that blasted place, seemed to have anticipated some pushback and subsequently implemented safeguards in advance in the form of physical and psychological ailments.

It was a hell of a way to describe the return of his mortal soul, but Alastor, well-acquainted with denial, managed it stupendously.

“Al?”

“Yes,” he gritted out, fighting the impulse to panic.

 _Panic_. What a horribly human notion.

“Al, ya don’t seem that freaked out ‘bout all of this.” Angel tried to hide the waver in his voice. Accustomed to Angel’s mercurial emotions, Alastor cottoned on quickly. He strove to speak in an even, measured tone.

“Don’t I? If you’ve noticed anything in the past couple of days, I have been, but the time for all that has passed. Far from accepting my fate, now I’m merely intrigued. What are non-exterminator Angels capable of? The worst thing, I imagine, would be the cessation of our veritable existence.”

He recited it so matter-of-factly, and were he a few degrees divorced from the situation, he might have believed it.

“Don’t…dontcha care ‘bout that?” Angel folded up within himself, knees touching chin. “I don’t wanna stop _existing_.”

“Angel, you’re acting as if we have a snowball’s chance. As Husker likes to say, ‘When it’s time to fold, it’s time to fold’.”

Alastor had no intention of folding. He was planning on leaving exactly as he’d entered. Kicking and clawing and drenched in blood.

“Al? What happened when ya got rid of Tannin?”

He scrunched his brow. “Who?”

“My ex-man. What happened to him after ya ripped him apart on your show? Did he double-die or…”

 _Ah_ , Alastor recalled. _The loud one. The beggar._

“Dear, I don’t keep meticulous track”-it was a lie, he did-“of all the sinners that I eviscerate on the show. Your previous beau was but another blip on my transmission.”

He hazarded a glance at Angel and was rewarded by a slight quirking of his lips. Emboldened, he continued.

“I can confidently say that he has been purged from existence, his corporeal body destroyed entirely, and whatever remained of his soul reformed as a brick in the path of good intentions.”

The evisceration of that demon was one amongst a pile of many, but Alastor remembered it vividly. Private hotel property was not to be trifled with, first and foremost.

The corners of Angel’s lips gave way to a diminutive smile.

“Thanks, Al. Ya didn’t have to, but ya did. I may not have been receptive at the time, but now I just wanna let ya know how grateful I am.”

Alastor raised a brow. “For vivisecting your ex-beau?”

Angel laughed, and it did something funny to Alastor’s stomach.

“Yeah. ‘Sactly that, Smiles. Exactly that.”

Alastor cracked his neck, distracting him from the queer feeling. “I would have thought you more sympathetic. In any case, why even entertain someone with those unfortunate attributes? If you don’t mind me prying, what _was_ the intended goal?”

Angel paused, then answered, “Just a cock to fill my hole, Smiles. Ain’t no deeper than that. ‘Less _you_ wanna go for it.” He winked for good measure, even as his demeanor grew colder.

The retort was too smoothly spoken to be the truth, but Alastor let it slide. He’d revisit it later.

“Any other dark secrets we should confess? Before our whole existence turns topsy turvy?”

“Your whole existence is a dark secret. Ya ain’t tell me one thing ‘bout yourself, besides your name and the sex bullshit.”

Alastor sighed. He seemed to be doing that much more, lately. It was a habit from his human years he thought he successfully curtailed.

Apparently not.

“I answered your query about Vox,” he retorted, a shade petulantly. Angel brought out a puerile side of him that he did not enjoy.

He voiced it. “This whole scenario is asinine. Angels are manipulating our fate while we wait in a formless, Tartarean dungeon. To Hell with this, and with everything. I, myself, am earnestly anticipating their verdict.”

Ruling in Hell as part of the oligarchy was downright exhausting. Right now, under the weight of his newly restored human soul, it toppled him. He let the enervation seep through his narrative, caring not a whit if Angel noticed.

Uneasy was the head, so they said.

“Wait, ya don’t believe ya should be redeemed?”

Angel’s voice was tremulous. Alastor gave him a curious look.

“Do you?”

“My reasons was kinda self-servin’ in the beginnin’ but…is it weird that I’m comin’ ‘round to it?”

His fingers on each hand twitched. With what, Alastor couldn’t imagine.

“Angel, I asked if you think you deserved redemption, not if you’d consider it.”

“Do you think I do,” he asked in a small voice. He brought his hands down to his lap. Alastor followed the movement and drew his attention downward. His eyes rested there for a charged moment before he regained his bearings. He snapped his gaze back up towards Angel’s face, his own heating in response. Distracted, Angel failed to notice his momentary lapse in sense.

He cleared his throat, fighting down the flush.

“Why does my opinion matter to you?”

“I dunno, Smiles. It just _does_.”

Angel, clutching his fingers together in his lap to stem the twitching, looked up, and gifted him a shaky smile.

Alastor, for reasons unknown, mirrored it.

What followed was horrible timing.

“We’re back!”

“Sure you both missed us. Please, hold back the applause.”

Turiel, the blasted creature, quickly surveyed the room, and exclaimed, “Oh! How wonderful, you two are getting along! I knew those gals were wrong! House on fire, I said!”

Alastor turned towards Arariel, slowly lifting his hands in mock surrender.

“If, perchance, we overpower the two of you, may I be given first choice to strangle him?”

“Go buck-wild.”

“What? Arariel, how rude!”

He faced Angel, apparently expecting solidarity. All he received was a halfhearted shrug. Sighing, he spread his wings. Alastor and Angel flinched at the sudden gesture, hackles rising considerably as ethereal light enveloped his being. He clasped his hands together and bowed his head while his partner scoffed, “Babies.”

In the blink of an eye, objects rained down from the nonexistent sky. They hit the ground, tumbling, but quickly reassembled themselves in neat piles in a show of what Alastor deemed as magic, and what Angel probably deemed as a miracle.

Alastor, fed up to high Heaven, narrowly stopped himself from sighing.

 _Abandon hope_ , _indeed_.

* * *

Angel glanced at Alastor, but he seemed to be engrossed in thought. He appeared to be just as intrigued by all the scattered items, neatly formed into twin piles.

“Don’t be shy, step right up! Here are some of your mortal things, the material objects you couldn’t take with you on the way down. We’ve recovered the majority of them. Well, the ones that matter most, anyway. Enjoy the trip down memory lane!”

Angel judiciously orbited the area, wary and for good reason. This whole situation was insane. Maybe Alastor was right. Maybe this was all just a wild goose chase.

He stepped closer to the heap.

_Oh._

He recognized his stuffed bunny at once. The right ear was flopped over, a surgical mishap from when his older brother nearly tore it off in a fit of pique. His mother sewed it back on for him, singing lullabies while he and Molly cried.

A surge of nostalgia crept up his chest and into his throat. He swallowed around the lump and continued walking.

Various knickknacks of his were scattered about. He spied his first cufflinks, the secret lipsticks he had hidden in nooks and crannies, the scarf he spirited away from one of his old lovers, and the brooch he treasured, which was a wedding gift from his father to his mother. His father adamantly refused to give it to him, but his mother squirreled it away, in the hopes that one day, he would be able to gift it to the one he loved. She deliberately never mentioned gender.

That’s just what mothers did. At least, the decent ones.

He blinked back the near-deluge of tears. He hadn’t thought of his mother in years. Not consciously. He whipped his head around, seeking distraction.

On the other side were Alastor’s things.

Angel surmised that from the pristine condition of most of the items. He picked out a handful that stood out to him: a bicycle that looked to have seen better days, timeworn, dog-eared copies of “A Woman of No Importance” by Wilde and “The Wasteland” by Eliot, a fancy fountain pen, an old ribbon microphone, a crimson tie, and a ring.

Angel was intrigued by all the objects but fixated on the last one. Like a magpie, he found himself drawn to it. He stalked closer, legs moving on autopilot, and spurred by curiosity.

He reached the jewelry, glinting under celestial light, and leaned in. It was a thin, gold band, set with a tiny, winking diamond.

“Ah.”

Alastor was a heavy presence behind him. Barely a word passed his lips, but it was infused with a palpable gravity, a weight woven with melancholy. It was old, an ancient ache that spanned decades. Angel knew this pain intimately. He wasn’t certain if it persisted after Alastor had lost his humanity, or if he regained it over the recent months.

 _No_ , a wayward voice chimed from inside the recesses of Angel’s mind.

 _Forgotten_.

_Not lost._

He turned to face him, hoping his expression was enough to convey his bemusement. It was like looking into a mirror, obscure and dark: eyes downcast as if to shield them, face devoid of his usual smile.

Alastor opened his mouth and, at once, explained everything and nothing.

“My wedding ring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the song, It Isn’t Fair, by Dinah Washington.
> 
> "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate" is from Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy, specifically the first part, Inferno. It translates to: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
> 
> Père: French for father.
> 
> “Uneasy is the head that wears the crown” is from Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 2, Act 3.
> 
> 1 Corinthians 13:12 “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.”


End file.
